Stalemate
by H. Erectus
Summary: In which Craig Tucker sucks, the rumor mill sucks, and a catch-22 screws everyone over. Stan/Kyle, minor Craig/Clyde. Maybe others.
1. Inciting Incident

Two assholes, both alike in dignity,

In fair Park County where we lay our scene,

From ancient friendship break to new awkwardness,

Where weird shit is pretty routine.

From forth the... oh, fuck it.

Let the narrator stop ripping off Shakespeare and assure you that no one kills his or her self. Also, no one dies in a sword fight. Oh, get your mind out of the gutter! Actual swords, not pork swords. How one could die from that, the narrator hasn't a clue.

Commence serious time. That clever opening wasn't just for shits and giggles, oh no. Our scene seriously is Park County. South Park, if you're nitpicky and enjoy specifics. But still Park County. There are also two assholes who have an ancient friendship. The dignity part may or may not be a lie. Also, weird shit is, in fact, routine.

No, okay, shutting up now.

* * *

High school. The best time of your life, if you look back and allow nostalgia to romanticize and candy-coat it. If you're living it, though, you tend to have the much more realistic notion that it fucking sucks.

The privileged few who do happen to enjoy school are those who have it made. Jocks, cheerleaders, popular and amiable honor students, cliché shit like that. The rest either cope, cry daily, or drop out. Coping entails eking out a somewhat comfortable place among peers on your social tier and staying there. Dreaming big does no one any good in the real world. And high school is totally real world prep.

But that information goes right over the heads of some. Take Stanley Marsh, for example. He suffers from asthma, thus barring him from his rightful place among his school's athletic teams. It hadn't stopped him from pursuing sports as a child, oh no. But since God seems to hate everyone with any sort of disorder, it had gotten progressively worse with age. He can't run two minutes without wheezing and frantically rifling through his pockets for his inhaler. Yet he continues to try out for sports. All of them. Even girl's volleyball, on one occasion. He never accepts offers for water boy, towel boy, or anything of that nature. He won't settle for below par. Stubborn fucker.

Oh, and as if having defunct lungs and a chronic case of rejection isn't enough, he's the shortest person in his circle of friends, standing at an unimpressive five-foot-six. This may or may not play a role in his exclusion from sports teams. It's also something he chooses to ignore.

But, yes, he has friends. The wheezy, short kid has friends. They all reside on one of the middle social tiers, just above the stoners (who are surprisingly well-liked,) and just below the yearbook club. They do have some casual friends on other tiers, but they all tend to stay in their niches. As it should be.

Inevitably, though, some people are closer than others. Three boys in particular comprise our weak-lunged protagonist's core group of friends. Five, if you count the resident fatass, who is a fair-weather friend at best and maintains a spot on the band geek tier. Yes, five. It's a weight joke.

If going by alphabetical order, by last name, Kyle Broflovski would be first. He'd also be first if you were going by level of closeness. Super Best Friends and whatnot. More on him later. Eric Cartman, previously mentioned fatass, is next alphabetically and obviously last on the friend scale. He's behind everyone. Even Pip. Wait, why the fuck is Cartman even on this list? Okay, moving on. Kenny McCormick is third, but follows Kyle in terms of... friend-ness. Butters Stotch is... Goddammit, you should be able to figure this out by now.

Yes, childhood friends sticking together in the turbulent world of high school. It's touching, really. A special bond, unbroken by time or popularity or different class schedules. It could almost pass for after school special fodder. Almost. It's a little more complex than made-for-TV movies about moral issues and paradigm shifts.

Oh, right. 'More on him later' is up there somewhere, isn't it? So, Kyle. Long, pale, and diabetic. One of the tallest dudes on his tier, in a cruel twist of fate. Tall enough to play basketball, but with a vehement refusal to play. He loves the sport, so no one's really sure why he never tries out. Oh, and Stan isn't bitter about Kyle's height at all. That'd fuck everything up. Why ruin a thirteen(ish)-year friendship over a height difference? Kyle's also weirdly intelligent. Honor-roll-tier intelligent, even. It makes no sense that he's on the 'Unremarkable Kids' level. It probably has something to do with Stan. Not that he'd own up to that.

Kenny McCormick is another one of those kids who doesn't belong in the average group. He's pretty. Man-pretty. Pretty enough to be the most popular guy in his grade, even if his teeth are a little crooked and he tends to smell a bit like sour milk. He masks it well, though. No one can say for sure where he gets the cologne, but it works.

Cartman is a fat douchebag who plays the tuba. Moving on.

Butters belongs on a much lower level. He's nice enough, with a friendly smile and endearing appearance. He's just... kind of irritating. One can only take so much of the sunshine-and-rainbows disposition the boy has. And he's taller than Stan, which is sort of insulting somehow.

There are other kids, too. But they're not worthy of their own paragraphs. Except one.

Wendy. Wendy Testaburger. The childhood sweetheart with the weird last name. Ideally, she and Stan would be together and Stan would tower over her and would be a buff jock with healthy lungs. But, seeing as nothing is ever ideal, she has a good two inches on him and they hardly talk. She's just that; a childhood sweetheart. Nothing beyond. Well, okay, they're casual friends. Backup friends, in a sense. If a friend of Stan's is absent in the class they have together, he'll go to Wendy. She's friendly enough. She's smart, outspoken, and pretty in an average, unremarkable sort of way. She's one of those high-ranking kids. For the sake of making sense, Stan should probably be attracted to her. He hasn't been for six-ish years, though. He isn't sure why. She only deserves a paragraph to denounce this issue. And maybe 'cause she's more important than it seems. Maybe. Probably not, though.

Now that that's all squared away, this not-quite-a-prologue can be drawn to a close.

One of the biggest downsides to being barred from every school sports team is the lack of activity. He's no Eric Cartman, but Stan can never seem to get the lean figure he had from middle-school football back. It's just a little bit of fat, settled rather girlishly on his lower body; hips, thighs, and ass. If you look at him from a distance and squint, he looks like a chick, no lie. He hates his stupid hourglass figure and hates, fucking hates when he's approached from behind and hit on.

Of course, the suitor always runs when Stan turns around, but still.

* * *

The final bell of a Friday finds Stan at his (and Kyle's, but that's another story) locker, attempting to excavate an assignment rubric from between the pages of a history textbook.

"Hey, baby. Is your father a baker? 'Cause you got great buns." Stan drops the book and slowly cranes his head to glare at the douchebag behind him.

"Christ, no, Kenny, that one sucked," he grumbles, pivoting and smacking the other boy on the arm. The assaulted party feigns hurt and rubs the afflicted area.

"Well fuck you, too, Bootylicious." Stan laughs in spite of himself and Kenny offers a toothy grin. It'd be a stunning smile if he didn't need braces so badly.

"Shouldn't you be, like, hitting on the Chess Club?"

"I like glasses and insecurities, but no. Let's hang or something, I got jack shit to do."

"I carpooled, we gotta wait for Kyle. We have plans."

"Oh, my God. Locker, car - what the fuck's next, you guys gonna share a dick?"

"Lay off."

"Oh, Kyle," Kenny mocks, heightening his tone for effect, "sorry I grabbed your crotch!" He lowers his voice a bit. "It's okay, Stan, my dick is your dick!"

And since Kyle has bad timing, he rounds a corner and reaches his row of lockers right as Kenny is thrusting into his own hand. Stan is nearby, looking utterly horrified.

"Okay. You're gonna move, and I'm gonna get my French book, and we're gonna forget this happened."

"Ken's tagging along, just for the record," Stan says, maneuvering under Kyle and grabbing his dropped textbook.

"So's Butters. Craig, too."

"The fuck? Craig Tucker?" Stan asks incredulously. Kenny looks on awkwardly.

"Yeah. Says he needs to be there anyway, I dunno." Kyle stuffs a binder and a textbook into his backpack and slams the locker door shut. Stan then untangles himself from the other boy's legs and hops to his feet.

"Sounds sketchy."

"Beyond belief." It's quiet, then. No one can think of anything to say. Kenny chews on his lip a moment, then opens his mouth.

"Shotgun."

"You son of a bitch." So begins Stan and Kenny's epic race to Kyle's car. Stan winds up winning, sliding ungracefully into the passenger seat. He has to rifle through his backpack and take a few puffs of his inhaler, but it's worth it.

"You're a dick," Kenny whines from the backseat as he crams his tattered backpack between his legs.

"You can't call shotgun until the car is in sight, so I didn't do anything illegal."

"I have to sit back here with Craig. I'm mad at you."

"What's wrong with Craig?"

"Apart from the stick in his ass?" Kenny's eyes narrow. "He smells like cheap cologne."

"It could be worse."

"You're right. He could smell like you." Stan throws a box of tissues at the boy in the backseat. He tries not to find some kind of lewd reason for their presence in the car.

They argue a little more, but Kyle, Butters, and Craig all file out of the school building just in time to stop a 'fat leprechaun' joke from leaving Kenny's mouth. Butters, being the smallest, is forced to take the middle. Kenny's bony, angular frame is a pain in the ass to have in the middle, anyway. Craig, stocky and sinewy, fits uncomfortably behind the driver's seat. His knees are pushed up weirdly, due to Kyle's seat being ridiculously far back.

"Well," Kyle begins, clapping his hands together, "what say we get the fuck out of here, huh?"

Stan looks back and notices the subtle twitch of Craig's hands. Poor kid. Fighting off the urge to use that gesture must be terrible. He turns his head back to Kyle and watches as the key turns and the car shakes and wheezes to life.

"Piece of shit," Kyle murmurs, switching gears and pulling out of the mostly-empty lot.

The ride is pretty quiet and awkward, with only hushed conversations about school breaking it occasionally. Butters grinds his knuckles the entire time and Kenny chews on his hoodie strings. Stan is more bothered by these tics than he'd care to admit.

When they arrive at their destination, the parking lot is unusually crowded. Granted, the small building shares a lot with a department store, but it's still irritating.

"Oh, we're here," Kyle deadpans, "now get the hell out of my car." The four passengers scramble out and Kyle disappears in search of a parking space.

"Dude," Kenny whispers to Stan, stopping a good distance from the storefront and resting his chin on the shorter boy's shoulder. He gestures to an exceedingly curvy figure by the entrance and the boy eyeing her.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes."

"No fucking way, man."

"He's looking at her." Butters casts a confused glance at the two and hustles over, keen on getting in on something.

"Craig's here for Bebe," Kenny says, smiling as Craig shuffles towards the girl. Ah, yes. Bebe Stevens. Buxom, blonde, and beautiful. Also kind of smart. Not the kind of combination one would expect, but what the fuck ever. She has ambitions to become a marine biologist. Rumor has it she keeps a shark in her pool. Best friends with Wendy Testaburger. Her second best friend is Clyde Donovan - spacy, kind of chubby, but adorable and remarkably popular among his average-kid peers.

"Is not."

"Whatever." The trio disperse and wait patiently as their fourth friend makes his way through the sea of cars.

"I'm fucking cold," Kyle announces, ignoring the way Craig and Bebe exchange hushed whispers and odd gestures, "let's get inside."

As soon as they head for the door, Craig smiles uneasily at Bebe and creeps inside. The girl frowns, but quickly perks up and offers a little wave to the group of familiar faces.

"That, ah, that was a little weird, huh, guys?" Butters twiddles his thumbs as a wave of affirmatives hits him.

Stan and Kyle head for the House of the Dead station. Kenny wanders off to schmooze someone into giving him quarters. Butters follows uselessly. Craig is nowhere to be found.

"I think I like this more than those Xbox games, man," Stan says, offing a zombie with his blue plastic light-gun.

"Why don't we do this more often? It kind of kicks ass."

"Totally."

They take out a few more zombies in silence, but Bebe's voice over the hum of the crowd of patrons causes Stan to freeze up.

"This Craig and Bebe shit is weird."

"Huh?"

"You saw her outside, right? I think Craig might be here to see her." Stan sets his gun back in its holster as the GAME OVER text flashes across the screen. Kyle follows suit and they shuffle into the corner to talk.

"They'd make a really odd couple," Kyle remarks, leaning into the wall behind him.

"I know, right?" Stan mimicks the other's body language, pressing his back against the locked door on the opposite wall. He absently fiddles with the handle.

"It's weird, though. Why can't he just see her on his own?"

"Maybe they're keeping it on the DL."

"Makes sense, I guess."

"Aw, fuck, dude, here he co-" Stan is cut short by the blunt force of the door hitting him from behind, pushing him forward and into Kyle. In the midst of the flurry of movement, the employee emerging from the threshold shoves them and they fall. The two fight for purchase on each other as they topple. When they hit the ground, Stan is too winded to really notice anything but the buzzing in his head and the lingering sensation of pressure at the point of impact.

"I'm telling." Wait, what? That's Craig's voice. Stan strains his eyes, not intent on moving for a while, and notices the boy's disdainful look. To top it off, he has Clyde Donovan beside him with a hand clapped over his mouth.

Oh. Oh fuck. The feeling in Stan's body comes rushing back and he looks down and finds, to his horror, that Kyle is rightthereinhisface with a shocked expression. Their noses are touching. Stan's lips tingle.

They didn't. They couldn't have.

"I knew it." Aw, shit. They did. Stan only half-registers being shoved aside.

"It was an accident, Tucker."

"Sure it was."

Stan pulls himself up into a sitting position and glares up at the two boys holding hands in front of him. Bastards. What fucking timing. And what are the odds- wait. Holding... oh, Jesus.

"Gay," Stan says simply, pointing at the linked hands. They part immediately. Craig looks pissed, while Clyde looks awfully perplexed.

"Gentlemen," Craig says after clearing his throat, "I believe we've reached stalemate."


	2. Impasse

A/N: Yay, quick update.  
This is dialogue-heavy filler, sprinkled with a teensy bit of plot advancement.

Refer to first chapter for disclaimer.

* * *

"Shithead."

"Calm."

"Asshole."

"The."

"Dicklicker."

"Fuck."

"Son of a bitch."

"Down."

Stan finally breathes, looking pointedly at the boy beside him. They had long since exited the arcade, opting instead to sit on the curb and bitch.

"He won't tell, you know. I think he's smarter than that." Kyle drums his fingers on his knees.

"Nothing's stopping him. It's not like anyone would kick his ass for it," Stan remarks, then adds as an afterthought, "He's scary."

"Craig tells, we tell. Clyde wouldn't let it happen."

"He so would." Kyle sighs at that and rests his forehead in his right palm.

"You're impossible."

"I'm worried."

"It's not like we can't handle the rumor mill. False allegations. One of us can date some chick for a while and we're good."

"Speaking of chicks," Stan says after a moment, casting a glance back at the building, "why d'you think Bebe was here?"

"Bearding."

"... What."

"Bearding," Kyle repeats, "like, pretending to be Craig's girlfriend. She's friends with Clyde, right? It wouldn't be weird for her to come here with him, then meet up with her, um," Kyle pauses to make air-quotes, "'boyfriend,' but in reality she's covering for them and she sits with them while they flirt and they all pretend Clyde and Craig go off to talk about how Craig plans to get her in to bed when they're actually looking for a dark corner to make out in." He takes a deep, deep breath. Stan looks incredulous.

"You put a lot of thought into this."

"My mom leaves the TV on Lifetime on during the day. Staying home sick is Hell."

"What does not kill us makes us stronger." Stan pats Kyle on the back and stands, stretching out. "I kinda wonder why Craig had to leech onto you for a ride, though. Clyde has a car."

"Willingly instigating a third-wheel incident would've been weird. Social code."

"I wonder about you sometimes," Stan murmurs. Kyle grins and jumps to his feet, then spins on his heel and heads back inside.

--

They leave, sans Craig, twenty minutes later. When Stan quietly questions why their missing passenger rode back with Clyde, Kyle explains that it's okay to leave a date as a perceived third wheel, as long as an unwilling demeanor is taken on. Social stipulations, honestly.

They drop Butters off at his own home, due to his back-before-seven restriction. His father may be gone, but the rules sure as fuck aren't. His mother, God bless her, became slightly more neurotic after being left by her husband for an honest-to-God gay porn star. Life's a hell of a lot easier for Butters, now, though. Even if Linda dresses him in sweater vests.

They discuss this on the ride to Kyle's house. Kenny voices his opinion on Linda Stotch's MILF status. Stan gags a little and calls it into question. It leads to a verbal brawl.

"She's sexy. Who cares if she's a mom?"

"I'm just saying, man, it's weird. I wouldn't want to pound something a baby came out of."

"Why the fuck not? You're gonna have to after you have kids."

"I don't want kids!"

"Whatever. Just 'cause she has a kid doesn't mean she's not hot. All the porn stars are moms. Everyone in Hollywood, too. You'd still jerk it to, like, Jessica Alba if she popped out a baby, right?"

"Jessica Alba is fuckin' gross." Kenny's jaw drops, but he quickly launches into an impersonation of a police siren.

"Gay alert, gay alert! I repeat, we have a gay!"

"'Cause I don't get off on plastic? Yeah, okay."

"Plastic or not, man, girls are girls and hot is hot."

"But, see, there's something called _taste_ and some of us actually have it."

"How about the school's new bowling team, huh?" Kyle breaks in, radiating false enthusiasm.

"Better than the ping-pong team," Kenny says, engrossed in his hoodie strings once again.

"I don't see how they can just decide to add on a new pseudo-sports team. We already have a sledding team and a Yahtzee club," Stan declares, only a little bit of bitterness in his voice.

"They're not doing anything with it 'till next semester. You should try out." Kyle quickly glances in Stan's direction.

"With my luck, I'll break both arms before I get a chance."

"Shut the fuck up," Kenny exclaims cheerfully, smacking Stan's upper arm lightly.

--

Kyle's mom makes them something surprisingly delicious and, by the grace of God, ducks out with Gerald in tow. Something about a dinner for some organization. No one seems to pay attention.

Kenny winds up sitting and listening to Ike explain the concept of nanorobotics while Stan and Kyle play War. Kenny looks utterly fascinated. It's something no one could've called, really.

"And nanomedicine would include microsurgery, and that simplifies tedious procedures," Ike concludes as Stan whoops and takes the last of Kyle's cards.

"You cheated," Kyle protests, watching as Stan dances about.

"You can't cheat at War, assrammer!"

"I'm sure you'd figure out a way."

Stan frowns and sits back down, whipping out his outdated brick of a cellphone. His eyebrows furrow as he reads the notification on the screen.

"Clyde texted me."

"Clyde Donovan?" Kenny pipes up, reaching across the table for the card deck.

"Do we know any other Clyde? Jesus." Stan clears his throat and looks pointedly at Kyle. The other nods shortly and they leave to talk in the living room.

"What's it say?"

"It says, and I quote," Stan murmurs, "'got it under control, I think. Don't talk and he won't. Pretty sure.'" He bites his lip. "Only he shortened a lot of words like a dicktit."

"Dicktit?"

"Dicktit."

"It's not his fault."

"But his boyfrie-- dear God." Stan shudders and Kyle rolls his eyes.

"Homophobe."

"The thought of Craig ramming Clyde in the ass disturbs me. If that makes me a 'phobe, then, yeah, I'm a 'phobe."

"How do you know Craig tops?" Kyle questions, quirking an eyebrow.

"Clyde's way more girly. He'd so take it."

"But there's a height rule," Kyle's voice takes on a teasing lilt, "and Clyde's taller." Stan tenses slightly at this.

"That is the biggest crock of bullshit I have ever heard."

"No, man, it's so true. The shorter one is almost always the bitch."

"Goddammit, man. If it came down to gay sex, I'd so--"

"I'm fucking with you, dude," Kyle interrupts, "But the bitch is usually the one you wouldn't expect to be the bitch. The manly one, y'know?" Stan seems to consider this, then nods.

"Lay off the Will and Grace. And the romance novels."

"Oh, _one_ time."

"And you'll never live it down."

"Let's get serious," Kyle huffs. "This is a problem."

"I thought you said we could deal with the rumor mill."

"I'm starting to doubt myself."

"Well, shit." Stan pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

"Okay, look. There's a chance Craig will decide he doesn't care. There's a chance he won't. I can never tell with that fucker."

"And if he does?"

"We cross that bridge when we come to it." Kyle rests a hand on Stan's shoulder and smiles. "Don't lose too much sleep over it, 'kay?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, and, uh, you okay? You're not really yourself."

"Yeah, I dunno." Stan forces a smile and waves a hand dismissively. "Kind of a clusterfuck day. Don't worry." Kyle nods and stands, letting go of Stan's shoulder and heading back into the kitchen.

The phantom sensation and warmth linger. His lips feel strange.

Huh. Weird.


	3. Discord

A/N: Mostly filler again, yaay. And maybe some plot development. I don't wanna rush into everything just yet.

And ok, I really wasn't expecting this to get any support at all, so the fact that I have alerts and faves and reviews on this fic is astounding. Thanks so much! There are way better stories out there so I'm amazed that mine is getting attention.

* * *

Saturday and Sunday pass without incident. Well, okay, not counting Stan developing a huge bruise from Friday and Butters getting his face stuck to a mailbox (though that had been an intended and satisfyingly hilarious event).

Monday morning is different. Despite his best efforts, Stan is unshakably nervous. His aura of tension and paranoia is almost palpable. He finds himself constantly sneaking nervous glances at everyone he knows, wondering; trying to read their minds. Whenever he hits his bruise, he gets nauseous. It's probably not normal. He winds down a bit during fourth period, even though he'd passed Craig at one point earlier. The boy had regarded him and nodded curtly, but it hadn't really done much to pacify the fear. Craig's an asshole, so his nods can't be taken as a sign of anything. Stan informs Kyle of his anxiety at lunch. Kyle laughs and calls him paranoid. They continue on like this until the end of the school day, when they discuss their afternoon plans on the way to their locker. They come to a mutual decision to forsake their retards (and they mean that lovingly) and snipe people at the pond.

In hindsight, it's not the best idea.

"No one comes here anymore," Stan grumbles, reaching over to collect more snow. Kyle carves a happy face into his own snowball.

"There's no appeal. It's not aesthetically pleasing. The ice doesn't get thick enough to skate on," he pauses to consider something, "and coming here to make out would be fucking stupid."

"So sitting here and hanging out in trees makes us losers."

"Basically."

Stan shrugs and chucks his half-formed snowball at a bird. It misses.

"This blows."

"Yep."

They're silent again, each breath a visible puff of white. Stan wheezes a little. Kyle takes to thumping the back of his head against the trunk of the tree as he swings his legs back and forth. It's a companionable noiselessness. It almost makes everything seem okay. The immeasurable stretch of snow seems marginally less infuriating, the sharp angles of bare trees less bleak. The wind is soft and silent, stopping just short of bitingly cold. Nothing unusual. Kyle bites his lip, evidently debating whether or not to shatter it all.

"Sitting here hurts," he decides.

"Last one down... um. Sucks."

Stan swings his leg over the side of the branch and maneuvers his way down. Kyle beats him, though. Damned long legs. After a short argument, they make their way back to where they parked, chatting quietly about exams and snow and what the fuck ever else. Kyle stops mid-step a few feet from the car. The look on his face is one that's too familiar -- an unhealthy amalgam of anger and suspicion.

"There." He points across the street, at the large vehicle parked on the side of the road. "That's Cartman's car."

"There's more than one douche-mobile in the universe," Stan scoffs, studying the goliath. "Now who's paranoi-- Kyle?"

Kyle is already halfway across the street, shoulders set and fists clenched. Stan sighs and massages his temples. The things he puts up with, really.

"I know you're there, douche!" Kyle shouts, scooping up a handful of snow and chucking it at one tinted window. The driver's side door opens and Cartman oozes out, face impassive.

"Jew," he acknowledges with a dip of his head.

"Asshole."

"Before you give me a bruising verbal lashing," Cartman says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'll give you a warning. I know. Expect the worst."

Kyle stands, bewildered, as Cartman brushes the spattered snow off the back window and slides back into the front seat. Stan is still trying to implode and/or disappear when the other boy shuffles back to his side.

"I don't understand anything anymore."

"It happens."

--

"All he said was 'expect the worst,'" Kyle remarks later, once they're safe and warm in Stan's bedroom.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I dunno. I don't know how he knows, either."

"He must've talked to one of them."

"He hates them, though. And why would they just, like, tell him?"

"This is hurting my brain," Stan whines, tugging off his hat to pull at his hair. Kyle looks thoughtful for a moment.

"We should ask Bebe if she's seen Clyde talk to him."

"I forgot all about Bebe."

"So did-- wait." They look at each other and Kyle bites his lip. Stan's eyes go wide. Bebe. They hadn't thought about Bebe, had they? Never factored her in, never paused to wonder. God-fucking-dammit.

"Fuck," Kyle moans after they break the gaze.

"Yeah."

"They told her."

"Probably let it slip."

"And she told him."

"Dicks."

"I'm inclined to agree."

They both exhale loudly. It's briefly quiet, then Stan drops his head and groans into his mattress.

"God hates me," he mumbles.

"Nah." Kyle flips open his phone and scrolls through his contact list. "I'll just ask Bebe what's up."

"Like she'd tell you."

"No, man, she's nice to me. And she's a good lab partner."

"Whatever." Stan continues to scowl as Kyle types out a message. "What the hell are you gonna say, anyway?"

"Just that Cartman told us something weird."

"And she'll 'fess up to all of it."

"Yup."

After fifteen minutes of nervous fidgeting and talk of damage control, Kyle's phone buzzes. It's a glorious, heavenly sound, like the droning chorus of a thousand electronic angels. Or, you know, it could mean death. Whichever. An answer's an answer.

"Ahem," Kyle starts, "'He just knows that something went down. No deets. I'm sorry.'" Stan lets out a sigh of relief. Kyle is still displeased.

"We're, like, in the clear. Stop worrying."

"She seriously said 'deets.' What the fuck."

"Don't change the subject." They exchange glares, then Kyle dips his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"He's gonna try to find out what happened."

"He won't get it out of us, though." Stan hears something that sounds vaguely like the word 'stupid' come from Kyle. The bastard.

"There are other parties involved. And, and, and. Blackmail."

"You're overreacting."

"Says the guy who was bitching and moaning the entire day."

They study each other a moment, then drop it.

"I have a plan," Stan says after a long pause. Kyle looks up and frowns.

"Wow me."

"Basically," Stan begins, "you talk to Bebe, figure out what the hell's going on, have her talk to Craig and Clyde, and then we'll think of something to threaten Cartman with so he stays quiet."

"Won't work." Stan then punches Kyle in the arm. Kyle punches back. They wind up falling onto the floor and wrestling, their tribulations all but forgotten.

--

"From what I understand," Kyle says as he plops down next to Stan at lunch the next day, "everyone has everyone else by the balls. Total SNAFU."

"Fantastic. So now we wait for someone to crack under the pressure."

"Clyde's kinda got Craig whipped, so I think we're okay there." Kyle stops to raise an eyebrow. "Weren't you totally cool about this yesterday afternoon?"

"Yeah, but I had a nightmare."

"Nice." They wait for a bit, then watch the rest of their group dashes down the hallway. Butters looks ready to cry.

"Cartman cornered us," Kenny pants, "tried to ask what you guys have been doing lately. Something up?"

"He's just trying to ruin my life again," Kyle says, "no sweat." It's sort of the truth. Stan glances at him, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. The look he receives is nothing short of scathing.

"What's it this time?"

"Dunno. He's just being an asshat."

"Remember when he tried to convince everyone you had the zombie virus?" Kenny laughs to himself and fishes a bag of apple slices from Kyle's lunchbox. "That was a fun week." There's something, though. Something in Kenny's face that looks different. He looks like he's thinking. One can never tell with Kenny, though. It could be boobs or quantum physics on his mind. Speculation is pointless.

They talk more and manage to forget about everything until seventh period Health, during which Cartman sits a little closer to their group than usual. He seems to jot down notes with each sly glance in their direction. Stan is unconcerned. Kyle bitches via note-passing, which Kenny is irritatingly nosy about. Butters is oblivious. As it should be. When the final bell rings, Stan hurries to the locker to avoid having his ear talked (complained?) off. Kyle walks faster, though, so the solitude doesn't last.

"He's up to something."

"He's always up to something." Stan tugs his history book loose from the jumble of thick texts and places it in his backpack.

"This isn't good."

"I think you're blowing it way out of proportion." Kyle seems to tense at this. His eyes narrow and Stan knows he's about to explode.

"You can't fucking talk," he seethes, "you're so up and down and... and fucking bipolar about it. Don't try to preach."

"You fucking suck when you're a bitch," Stan hisses, slamming the locker door shut, "talk to me when you're cool again." He squares his shoulders and spins on his heel, preparing to stalk off.

"When we're both fucked over, you can deal with it your fucking self!" Kyle calls after him. Stan walks faster.

--

The words don't leave his head even as he dives headfirst into an APUSH study guide. It's kind of hard to focus on nonsense you'll never use when you're wondering what'll happen after your social life is fucked right up the ass and your best friend is too pissed to stick with you. What bullshit. He'll never make a sports team with this information in circulation. Heh, that rhymes. Stan allows himself to giggle briefly before going back to brooding. He really doesn't need this fuckery right before exams.

It's all so fucking juvenile. The eleventh-grade equivalent of uninviting someone to a birthday party. They'll both come around eventually, so it shouldn't be a problem, right? As hard as he tries to convince himself of this, the worry isn't quelled. The 'what if's keep plaguing him, distracting him from learning dates and names and other useless shit. Fuck, he's letting it get to him. Maybe he is kinda up and down about it. Maybe he needs to pick a side and stick with it. Maybe that's why it's bugging him so badly. He's indecisive, that's all.

"It's not a big deal," he announces to the room. Right. He can either be a griping, paranoid lunatic, or he can take it as it comes and relax. Total no brainer. He'll talk Kyle down, get him to regain his sanity, and deal with Fatty McButterchubs if need be. Fucking cakewalk. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and eyes his phone. He fucking hates making up. It's such a blow to his pride. Kyle's even worse, the stubborn fucker. Stan almost smiles before he decides to just go for it. He painstakingly types out a simple apology and waits. The study guide stares sadly up at him from its spot between the open pages of his textbook.

"It can wait." He shuts the book and waits for his phone to go off.

Sure enough, it does. But not before Stan just about worries himself to death. It's a little bit gay, but whatever. It's an apology, and it's important. The twelve-character message makes him smile, sigh, and decide to buckle down and finally fucking study.

--

Throughout the week, Cartman continues to not-so-subtly stalk them. Stan starts to find it funny, much to Kyle's dismay. Kenny remains curious. Butters, poor Butters, remains thoroughly perplexed. Kenny tries to explain it all with nonsense theories, but to no avail.

Stan keeps an eye on Craig, though. Fuck that kid. He's the only problem here. Even if Clyde has him whipped, he's a threat. If he'd just... explode or something, it would all be so much easier. But then Clyde would get upset. And he does irrational shit when he's upset. And he cries. And dealing with a crying teenaged mama's boy is hell. And so Bebe would kick Stan's ass for wishing an explosion on Craig. And she can hit hard, according to Token.

Goddammit.

Friday comes and no one has time for anyone else anymore. Four days of exams lie ahead. Midterm exam time is the most depressing time of year. People temporarily forget they have friends, relationships, and families and bury themselves in study guides and textbooks. The smart ones, anyway. And they all walk out of it five pounds lighter, with dark circles under their eyes that will take the whole break to get rid of. Serious fuckin' shit. You can fuck around freshman year, sure, but junior year is different. Grades matter.

Midterm exam time is also the time of year Stan finds himself obligated to put Kyle on suicide watch. It's fucking hectic, especially since Hanukkah and exam week tend to coincide. Oh, and this year, he's bitching about taking AP classes. Even though Stan, who is significantly less intelligent, is taking those classes too and is doing fine so that should be some kind of indicator, thank you, Kyle. Add all that to the stress of getting the other boy to stop thinking about his Cartman conspiracy theories, it's a Goddamn clusterfuck. Stan spends the weekend downing coffee (which he doesn't even like, what the fuck), participating in Hanukkah festivities while Kyle sulks, and trying to work reading self-help books into his study schedule. And being pressured into playing sentry whenever Kyle dares step out of his study-lair.

All in all, it sucks. Hard.

It passes, though, as do exams. There's a collective sigh of relief after the last exam of the week, and everyone starts talking about how easy those stupid tests were. Kyle is on cloud fucking nine. He almost doesn't take notice of Cartman's suspicious glances and stealthy trailing as their group shuffles down the hallway and towards freedom. Kyle sits in the parking lot for a full ten minutes and fumes until he passes out at the wheel. They all have to pitch in to heft him into the back seat and Stan is forced to drive. Kenny's just happy about getting Shotgun.

They wind up having to carry Kyle into his house. His mother pitches a fit. Ike laughs. They ignore it, dump Kyle unceremoniously on his bed, and play some card game or another until nightfall, when their comatose friend starts to stir.

"I feel like I was just fucked up the ass with a semi truck."

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," Kenny greets boredly. "Spoons doesn't work well with three people. Join us."

"What the hell even happened?" Kyle rasps, stretching out on his bed. "Is it New Year's? Did we drink again? I thought you guys made me promise last year--"

"Shut up. You pissed yourself off so much your brain shut down," Stan informs as he attempts to shuffle the deck of cards.

"What were you throwin' a fit about, anyways?" Butters asks.

"Ca-- nothing."

"If, ah, if you say so."

Stan heaves a sigh, hands the deck to a flummoxed Kenny, and drops his head into his hands. Ri-fucking-diculous.

"... Right. Um, who wants to play Go Fish?"

"I do!"

"Can I talk to you?" Stan murmurs in Kyle's general direction. Kyle shrugs and gestures to the outside hallway with his head. Stan rises to his feet, cringes, and hobbles out the door.

"My foot's asleep," he whines, kicking out violently in a futile attempt to regain feeling.

"You're good at changing the subject before we're even on it."

"Suck it," Stan grinds out from between clenched teeth. He takes a deep breath, then, "Okay. Stop dicking out about Cartman. He's not worth the energy."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, seriously, can we drop this?"

"No, because I know you. This will cause you to lose sleep and worry and bitch and whine and drive yourself insane. And that's just fucking annoying."

Kyle regards him carefully, poorly-veiled anger obvious in his stance. He says nothing. Stan hesitantly proceeds with his lecture.

"You take him too seriously and he takes advantage of that."

"Or," Kyle growls, "he's just an asshole who targets me."

"Because you make yourself an easy target, dumbass." It's quiet. They don't make eye contact.

"You don't know what he's capable of."

"That's the fucking thing, though! You act like I don't know Cartman. I do. I've been there for all the shit he's pulled and I think he likes to blow smoke up your ass because you give him the satisfaction of letting him piss you off." Stan blinks, unsure of how he managed to piece that treasure trove of bullshit together.

"Since when are you a fucking psychologist?"

Stan could throttle him. He really could. Kyle's thin, so his neck would snap easily; it'd be so simple to just fuck him up. Goddamn. He loves the stupid bastard, he really does, but Jesus fucking Christ it's hard to tolerate him recently. Stan's not even sure why. He's put up with all this bullshit before – fuck, he never even really cared – so what makes this so fucking special?

Stress, probably.

"Look, dude..." Kyle starts, effectively causing Stan's train of thought to crash.

"No, man, don't..."

"I mean, like. You know."

"Yeah, I know."

And just like that, it's all cool again. Sort of. There's still that unshakable feeling of_ wrong_ about everything.

Then again, most things in town feel that way. So Stan's probably reading too much into everything. Probably.


	4. Out of Sorts

Winter break starts out slowly, as always. No one has anything to do between their last exam and Christmas. Some people go on vacation or something, but the majority stay home and freeze. Most people prepare for Christmas and go mad with boredom. The others go out and do productive shit. Like throwing things at bigger things. That's always fun. Never gets old.

"Christ, Kenny, just throw the fucking rock!"

"I have this down to a science. Precision is key."

Kyle growls, snatches the stone, and hurls it at an oncoming car. It hits. Loudly. The driver rolls down his window and shouts. Kenny looks wounded.

"Okay, Jesus, we're throwing _rocks_ at _cars_. Both of you get over it." Stan glowers at them from his spot. He kinda gets why Kyle's being an ass, but it's not right or anything. Cartman and Jimmy (the lovable, funny-man cripple) have decided to join in on the fun. Cartman is reading, jotting down notes, and being quiet. Still, his presence sets Kyle on edge. It'd be funnier if Kyle wasn't already acting like a total neurotic Froot Loop.

"So a g-guy goes to a psychiatrist..." Stan hears Jimmy say to Butters. He decides to tune in for the duration of the joke, which will inevitably be doubled because of Jimmy's stutter. He knows the ending, but, hey, it beats listening to Kyle bitch.

"...'Simple!' says the d-doc– doctor, 'you're two t-tents!'" Stan snorts, Butters laughs uncontrollably, and Jimmy looks complacent. Cartman deigns to look over and sneer.

If Kyle wasn't so irritating, it'd be perfect. The snow's fresh and new on the ground, the air's still and the temperature is somewhat bearable. Winter still sucks ass, but hanging out with people who don't suck makes it a lot better. He never gets to hang out with everyone anymore, what the fuck. He exhales loudly and tosses another rock. Why is nothing appealing anymore? It's like, fuck, he's not depressed or anything, but he isn't happy. He's not even content. Everything's just... adequate. So-so. There's always something wrong, always something that bugs him. He isn't sure what's making him feel like this, can't quite put his finger on it.

But it wangs chung, that's for fucking sure.

Stan mulls it all over in his head as Kyle and Cartman get into a screaming match. Tuning them out is nice. He hums and tugs at a glove with his teeth, wondering how it's possible to both give a fuck and not give a fuck at the same time. A far more annoying noise breaks his concentration and he looks up just in time to see a horrified driver, her hand stuck on the horn, and a decidedly dead mess of Kenny beneath her tires. Must be from out of town. Among them all, only Butters has the decency to look mildly alarmed. Stan zones back out, accustomed to the blare of the car horn and completely unaffected by the gore splattered on the street.

And then someone's all up in his grill.

"The fuck, man?" Kyle's voice is low and harsh. Oh, he is _pissed_.

"Huh?"

"You didn't back me up!"

"You never needed backup before."

"This whole thing concerns you, too, you know." Kyle's face softens and he drops down next to him. Stan's a little wary of the sudden cooldown, but it's not like he's complaining or anything.

"I figured you were pissed at me for not caring Kenny died."

"Kenny died?" Stan points to the road. "Oh."

"I'd say it, but our comedic timing is way off."

"Bastard." They snicker and watch the sparse traffic evade the bloody skidmarks on the pavement. Cartman's back to taking notes, Stan observes, and Jimmy's bouncing joke ideas off a nonplussed Butters. It's a little more boring without Kenny there. Damn, he's gonna be pissed when he comes back. How does he do that, anyway? Stan's never bothered asking...

"It's getting dark," Butters says nervously, absently zipping and unzipping the collar of his jacket.

"L-let's go, guys," Jimmy instructs, gesturing with a crutch in the general direction of 'home.'

"You guys can go ahead," Stan says, unconsciously imitating the motion, "I'm gonna stick around. The getting's good at night." He grins as Butters murmurs something about freezing to death.

"I'm gonna hang back, too." Kyle watches intently as Cartman rolls his eyes and hoists himself to his feet.

"Fags," he says with a short nod. He then trots off to catch up with Jimmy and Butters.

Stan waves at the three retreating forms. Kyle still looks pissed. Surprise, surprise.

"Just you, me, and Kenny now, huh?" Stan claps the other boy on the back good-naturedly, earning a grunt in response. "I think one day I'm going to buy you Midol."

"Do it and I'll shove it so far up your ass you choke on it."

"And that's exactly why." Stan's eyebrows furrow and he pulls his knees to his chest. Fuck this shit. Fucking killjoy.

"Hey, no, look..."

"No, yeah, I know. Whatever."

"He just pisses me the fuck off."

"'Cause you let him." They both look away, engrossed in studying the ground around them. This is too close to feelings talk. Not like that's forbidden territory with them or whatever. It's just kinda gay. Especially when it's as frequent as it has been lately. They're practically chicks by now.

"It's cold," Kyle remarks.

"Pussy."

It is cold. Really fucking cold. The traffic might be thick and prime for chucking rocks at, but it's almost too cold to function. Doesn't cold stunt growth or something? Is that vegetables? He'll have to research that. He runs his top teeth over his lower lip. He needs chapstick or something. Fuck the caveats and connotations that go with flavored chapstick, chapped lips fucking hurt. Oh, God, he's doing that attention span thing. The one where he forgets about things and thinks about everything else.

"This is ridiculous," Kyle mutters, effectively ceasing the ringing in Stan's ears. It's decidedly obscure but he knows precisely what it means.

"Don't have to tell me twice."

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

"What about Kenny?" Kyle's eyes flit down towards the steadily congealing mass of dead. He seems to consider it, then shrugs.

"Leave him. He'll be fine."

–

Stan winds up crashing at Kyle's house. Sheila is merciful (or absent) and lets them sleep until well into the morning. And then they sleep more, because that's what teenagers do.

The first thing Stan registers when he wakes up is the absence of warmth next to him. Yeah, he and Kyle share a bed when they sleep over. It's winter, body heat is a precious resource. And he doesn't take up much space, so it's comfortable. Sleeping on the floor just sucks.

The second thing he registers is the loud cursing coming from down the hall, made louder by the open door. What bullshit. He yawns and pulls himself up, wincing at the twinge in his neck and shoulder. He doesn't bother thinking about the cause.

After regaining his ability to walk, Stan heads down the hall and to the source of the noise. He pushes the partially-closed door to the bathroom open with his hip and peeks in.

Well, damn. Nothing incriminating. Just a sleep-mussed Kyle, leaning over the counter and attempting to put his contacts in. The auburn mess of partially-tamed jewfro in his face seems to complicate the process. Stan isn't sure.

"Let's actually do something today," he says.

"Like what?"

"Well, like," he pauses to watch Kyle clench a fist and grit his teeth in anger as a contact falls, "since you're still all weird-y about everything, we could talk to Bebe. In-depth. Get details and shit."

"Bebe?" Kyle backs away from the counter and grabs Stan by the shoulders. "I didn't think of that! You're a fucking genius!"

"Stop shaking me."

"I could kiss you." Stan's eyebrows raise fractionally at that and something in his chest twists. What the fuck? Is this some kind of fucked-up inertia side effect?

"You didn't sleep much," he comments. It's the first thing he thought of, honestly. The dark rings under the other boy's eyes are rather prominent. And right in Stan's face. Oh, God.

"I kept thinking," Kyle releases his shoulders, "and you breathe funny when you sleep."

"Dude! Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Never bothered me. It was probably 'cause I couldn't sleep. I noticed shit. It sucked."

Stan shrugs and pulls his sweatshirt closer. Well, Kyle's sweatshirt. Whatever. Kyle goes back to repeatedly jabbing himself in the eye.

"I'm gonna go, uh, dress. Let's get out of here ASAP."

"Nngh," Kyle replies. Stan salutes and wanders back towards the bedroom. It's irritatingly cold and his jacket is still damp. Fantastic. He balls it up and tosses it down the hall. It lands by the bathroom. He allows himself a brief moment of celebration. He's definitely still got it.

"Blowdry that! I don't want to get pneumonia again!"

"Fuck you!"

The jacket disappears and the blowdryer switches on anyway. He smirks and goes back to tugging on his jeans. Girl jeans. They're all that fit right. Fucking hell. He groans and throws himself onto the bed, pants halfway up his ass and his undershirt hiked up uncomfortably beneath the sweater.

"You look nice," Kyle announces. Stan lifts his head and glares.

"And you look like someone just jizzed in your eye." Kyle throws the jacket in his face. It's warm. Stan pulls it close and hugs it.

"Fag."

"I'm not the one who just had a facial."

"Touché."

Kyle goes about looking for clean clothes while Stan carefully maneuvers into a t-shirt without removing his sweater or disturbing his undershirt. It kinda works. By the time he's done, Kyle's already dressed and bouncing on his toes, waiting impatiently.

They leave within five minutes, only to double back in order to grab food. About halfway through the walk, they begin to regret the decision to walk. It'd be kinda creepy to park at someone's house just to talk. Not that it isn't creepy to just pop over unannounced. That's just standard practice.

"We should've called or something."

Kyle wordlessly pulls his phone from his pocket and looks for Bebe in his contact list. Stan perks up and reaches for the device.

"I wanna do it."

"No!" Kyle places the phone to his ear and taps his foot on the frozen, salt-covered sidewalk.

"What's she saying?"

"Shut up."

Stan pouts. Kyle flips him off.

"Hey, Bebe? Yeah, hi, I was thinking and, like, would it be cool if, um, Stan and I came over and talked to you about some stuff?" Kyle scratches the back of his neck as he waits for a response. "No, yeah, it's totally cool. We'll be over soon. Bye."

"Verdict?"

"Her parents aren't home and she's kinda busy. But we have the go-ahead."

"I feel like nobody's parents are home anymore."

"They're probably all indulging in their mid-life crises. Token's dad just bought a Corvette."

"Retards."

The rest of the walk is quiet, and maybe even a little bit awkward. Kyle seems resolute. Stan still feels apathetic. That's probably not good, but whatever.

They reach the door and Stan barges in unceremoniously. Warm air is good for his lungs. Cold air is bad for his everything. Kyle is civil and knocks, though it's an ultimately futile effort. Bebe shortly prances out of the kitchen in what barely passes for pajamas and a girly apron. Kyle's eyebrows twitch. Stan is just confused.

"Right. Um, sit down and hold on. I have a cake to put in the oven."

Kyle obediently plops down on the overstuffed couch, eyes wide. Stan kicks him lightly.

"Let's go check for that shark." He shrugs in the direction of the back door.

"Ggh."

"You really gotta work on your coherency." Kyle leans in and splays a hand between Stan's shoulder blades, sending an inexplicable shiver up his spine. He can't even really feel it through his jacket, what the fuck.

"She so wants me," Kyle whispers, hardly audible over the clang of pans and utensils coming from the kitchen. Oh. _Oh_. That makes sense. Stan shakes his head and smirks, ignoring the way his stomach twists. Fucking poisonous granola bars.

"Wishful thinking. She was totally disinterested. And way to quote every coming-of-age teen movie ever."

"Assmaster."

"Dickhole."

"So what do you want to know?" They jump apart at the intrusion, blind to the knowing smile playing across Bebe's lips.

"Like, um, details and... stuff."

"How we all got into this mess, is what he means." Stan elbows Kyle and curses at him under his breath.

"Well, like," she sits down in the armchair and taps her nails against her bare thighs, "a couple weeks ago, he found out about something that I'm, uh, not proud of."

"Oh, Christ," Stan murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, I know." She sighs and tugs on a stray curl. "Anyway, he held it over my head and all this fucking bullshit until he decided to try to get something out of it. Basically he threatened to tell everyone about it unless I told him something good."

"And you told him something happened," Stan continues. Bebe nods.

"And then we made a deal: if he can figure it out by the end of break, I'm off the hook. If he can't, he'll tell everyone about what I did."

"So either way, someone's fucked."

"Pretty much."

"Fan-fucking-tastic!" Kyle exclaims, throwing his hands up.

"Kyle..."

"No! We're fucking fucked! He's gonna find out and our lives as we know them will end! End!"

"I apologize for this, I really do," Stan breathes, looking pleadingly at Bebe and holding Kyle off with his knee. She waves nonchalantly.

"No biggie. But, um. I have something else I wanna say."

Kyle stills and adopts a curious expression. Stan tilts his head.

"Yeah?"

"If," her expression darkens and her hair falls over her eyes, "you so much as _think_ about telling anyone about my Boo-Bear, I will make your life a living hell. Both of you."

"Boo-Bea– Clyde?" Stan bites his lip and digs his nails into Kyle's arm, fighting the laughter that threatens to escape. "Nah, no sweat, I'm not that big of a douchebag."

"What about Craig?"

"Craig's an asshole." She frowns and tugs at the edge of her apron. "But they're a package deal. Tell no one."

"Aye-aye." Stan jumps to his feet and tries to pull the alarmingly silent Kyle with him. "We'd best be going now. Um, good luck with that cake."

"Toodles," Bebe deadpans, watching boredly as the boys stumble towards the door.

"Boo-Bear," Kyle sputters once they're on the sidewalk. He seems unable to pick an emotion – horror versus mirth.

"We're ripping him a new one for that. Now come on. Let's go find Kenny."

–

Kenny, unsurprisingly, is pissed.

"You could've warned me there was a fucking car."

"Water under the bridge. I'm buying you lunch, aren't I?" Kyle bounces in the booth and points to the spread on the table.

The blonde growls and shoves another slice of pizza into his mouth.

"Don't choke or anything," Stan says carefully, fascinated by how Kenny manages to make it all _fit_. That's skill.

"Yeah, thanks, I learned my lesson after the twelfth time that happened."

How the fuck does Kenny manage to stay pretty with food all over his face? Like, it'd be totally gross if it was Wendy or something, but Jesus.

Wait.

It's not like Stan thinks Kenny's attractive or anything. Kenny's just...pretty. It's a fact. But Stan's not attracted to him in any way, shape, or form. No. That's just weird. He blinks and tries to forget he ever thought that. He keeps hearing something, though, and that's distracting and annoying and...

"Stan?"

"Huh?"

"Is Kyle bullshitting me? Was she actually half-naked?"

"I'm not lying!"

"Eh," Stan scrunches up his face and shrugs, "tank top, short shorts, and an apron. Not really half-naked, but not really fully clothed."

"The fact that you managed to actually notice what she was wearing is baffling to me." Kenny leans over the table, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. "Are you some kind of queer-o-sexual or something?" Stan freezes momentarily, but realizes that there's no way anyone knew about his previous moment of temporary insanity.

"I don't think with my dick. If that makes me a homo, so be it."

"Ouch." Kenny holds a hand over his heart. "Right where it hurts."

"I have you figured out, McCormick." Stan jabs a fry in Kenny's direction. Kyle seems engrossed in his phone.

"You know what? Fuck you. Talk to me after your balls finally drop and you like girls."

"Puberty jokes stopped being funny a long time ago."

They discuss this further, and Kenny somehow manages to hold his own with his mouth full. Stan is astounded, Kenny is smug, and Kyle is annoyed. Kenny takes 'annoyed' as a challenge to piss Kyle off even more. They wind up in a girly-slap war. Stan counts the grains of rice in the salt shaker. It's business as usual, and it almost feels right again. Not quite, though. It's his fucking brain that's fucking everything up. He can't stop thinking about everything that's wrong, everything that seems off, and everything that bothers him. It's the overthinking thing again. It's gonna drive him fucking crazy if shit doesn't go the fuck back to normal right a-fucking-way.

By the time he snaps out of his thoughts, Kyle has already paid and is demanding he leave the booth. He complies and walks stiffly towards the front of the restaurant. But, wait, is that... he knows that jacket. He rights himself and grins, waving to Clyde as he passes his table.

"Well, hey, Boo-Bear." The look on the kid's face is so, so worth it.

"Boo-Bear?" Kenny questions as they step out into the street.

"It's a long story."

* * *

A/N: Yeah I'm switching the A/N to the bottom. Anyway, yes. Plot advancement and half-assed explanations. Hoorah!

And, uh, I want suggestions. I'm thinking of throwing in more side/background pairings for shits and giggles. Any ideas? Anything in particular anyone would wanna see? I'm totally blank.

I want some het, too, just to balance everything out. But yeah. I was thinking of somehow pulling Kenny/Bebe out of my ass. Yes/No/I don't care? Humor me, folks.


	5. Crescendo

**A/N**: Okay, the A/N is back at the beginning because it's important this time. I'm so sorry – I got tied up in other things and my muse kind of just... died. It's back now, tentatively, and I managed to finish this chapter after way too long. It's actually moving along now, so, hoorah! This one's big, guys, so get ready for it. Or don't. Whichever.

* * *

"I wonder if the braces complicate the blowjob process any."

"Why are you thinking about this?"

"I bet it'd hurt like a bitch if he grazed him or something."

"Oh, my God."

"It's totally happened, too, 'cause I've heard both of them brag about getting laid and blown and jacked off in, like, public places."

"Jesus _Christ,_ Kyle!" Stan clutches his stomach and whines, the twisting in his gut rapidly becoming unbearable. It's a weird mix of nausea and... something else. He doesn't know.

"I'm fascinated by this. I mean, I've never known-known a gay couple and I'm kinda wondering how it all works, y'know?"

"That's kinda faggy."

"You're kinda faggy."

Stan huffs and moves further down the couch, but cracks a smile anyway.

"You should ask them," he suggests.

"What, and get my ass kicked?" Kyle snorts and swings his legs over to rest in Stan's lap.

"Craig isn't _that _stupid," Stan remarks, gingerly removing the offending limbs.

"No, he'd so totally, like, fight to defend Clyde's honor. Or something." Kyle drops his legs in the same place once again.

"I worry about you." Stan acquiesces and allows himself to become a footrest. Kyle seems pleased.

"You know, I kinda feel bad for Bebe. Even if she used us as her scapegoat."

"I'd like to go one day without talking about this shit. One."

"It's all I have to occupy my time with." They regard each other for a moment.

"I feel like we don't have lives anymore."

"Not since we were, like, ten." Kyle shrugs and adjusts his hat. "At least this is excitement."

"We have very different perceptions of the word 'excitement.'" Stan ignores the glare he _knows_ he's getting and preoccupies himself with his new phone. Christmas had been pretty cool. Even if time is flying by and Cartman's still sniffing for clues all over the fucking place. It's more annoying than anything. And it's still funny to watch Kyle get all bent out of shape.

It's quiet for an uncomfortable moment, then, "let's go somewhere."

"Where?"

"The fucking moon, Stan, I don't know."

"There's nothing to do anywhere. At all."

"Let's _make _something to do!"

"Fine, okay," Stan breathes. He's really, really not in the mood for an argument, serious or not. "But we're walking."

"I hate you."

"Uh-huh."

They promptly depart, heading off with no real goal in mind.

--

And that's how they wind up just outside town, engaged in a screaming (well, on Kyle's part) match with Cartman. If it weren't so stupid, Stan might think it looks kind of like the build-up to a shootout in an old Western movie. Only with snow.

"I have ways of making you talk."

"You don't have shit!"

"Sixth grade dance. I have it all on tape." Cartman's eyes narrow. "Everything. Including Kenny and the underwear and the puddle of blood and–"

"Goddammit, Cartman!"

"You gonna tell me now, Jewboy?"

"No!"

"It's going on the internet. I'll post flyers around school."

"You don't have the patience."

It's a load of fucking bullshit. The whole damned thing. It's like for every single thing one of them says, the other has a counter. It never stops. Ever. Stan feels his brain pound in his skull and he really, really wants to go home and get warm and take a nap. He'd also like for Kyle to never make him do anything again. He'd said at the start of the whole damn thing that he didn't care. Naturally, he'd received a look that said 'you're a fucking lunatic.'

"I have pictures from that one Halloween!"

Enough is enough.

"That," Stan pipes up, barely lifting his head from his hands, "is way drastic. You're going to an extreme to get information that might not even be worth it." Cartman and Kyle both stare. Stan continues. "Are you even aware of the fact that we have just as much, if not more, dirt on you?"

"That is bullshit, Stan!"

"Yeah, whatever. Go ahead and tell everyone some made up crap. I can come up with something better."

Cartman clenches and unclenches his fists for a moment. He seems to tremor a little. Kyle remains dumbfounded.

"You don't have shit to say to that, do you?" Stan digs his nails into his palms, a little surprised at his own audacity. "You know what, fatass? You don't fucking intimidate me. Threaten me all you want, I don't give a fuck."

"You're full of shit."

"No." Stan glances at Kyle and swallows thickly. "I don't fucking care what happens. And you can try, but you aren't gonna fucking manipulate me. No matter how Goddamn annoying you are."

He can feel eyes burning into him, so he turns and sets off. And, okay, maybe he lifts his arm up and directs a rude gesture their way as he retreats. His heart pounds in his chest and a sheen of nervous, adrenaline-fueled sweat covers his face. What a fucking rush. He hasn't felt like this since, what, fourth grade? He remembers being less of a boring pussy back then. There were more adventures.

It's not like Cartman had ever really intimidated him. Like, ever. He'd never taken the fat fuck seriously. Perhaps that whole sermon had been more of an indirect plea to Kyle, a request to balls up and get the fuck over it.

Wait. What the hell had this whole thing even been about in the first place? What the fuck had they been trying to prevent? Stan frowns, racking his brain for answers. There had been a clusterfuck... a whole chain of lies and deceit and blackmail. Cartman, Bebe, Craig, Clyde... what did he and Kyle even have to do with it? Stan knows it's something, but he can't remember what.

It comes back in periodic bursts as he trudges through town and then his neighborhood. Wait. Craig and Clyde. Gay. Holding hands. Where had he seen that? The arcade. Bad lighting, the hard, ugly-patterned carpet. The door. The rugburns. The bruise he'd had afterwards...

Aw, fuck. The kiss. Okay, well, accidental collision of faces. A minor incident of impossible odds (really, of all the places to land...) and a whole bunch of overblown nonsense. It hadn't even been a huge deal in the first place. And everyone had gotten so caught up in it that it'd escalated into a mess of Mexican Standoff bullshit. Over an accident. What the fuck. Kisses aren't even a big fucking deal, anyway. European guys kiss their friends. It's not like it meant something. If it had, it'd all be different. He'd probably remember it, for one...

Stan unconsciously brings his hand to his mouth and touches his lips. He shortly realizes how fucking gay that is and pulls the offending appendage away. He walks faster. Like that'll help.

He opens his front door. Gay. Huh. Why's the subject suddenly so interesting? He hasn't been interested in jack shit for weeks. It's just suddenly fascinating. It's not like he has a problem with it, fuck no. The idea of Craig and Clyde together doesn't weird him out. It had been a little shocking at first, sure. Come on, two best friends being in a covert homosexual relationship? Fucking crazy. And he'd never have pinned Craig for the assrammer type. Or... assrammee? How the fuck would you say that, anyway? One who is assrammed. Hmm.

_ "I knew it."_ His head snaps up as the memory of the disjointed, shock-obscured conversation seeps back into his brain. That's it. It's not the kiss. It's the idea of him being in a relationship with Kyle. Holy fuck.

He flops down onto his bed. It's almost funny that they'd assumed that. It's fucking disturbing in reality, though. What the fuck, honestly. Why would anyone think that? Why-- aw, fuck. Stan's train of thought derails and crashes. A new worry surfaces. Bebe thinks they're gay, too, doesn't she? She's gonna tell them all eventually, her and her big fucking mouth. There goes his shot at landing a hot, popular chick.

Wait. He's not upset about not getting laid until college. Fuck, he can't even remember the last time he thought about having sex, period. That isn't normal in a seventeen-year-old boy, is it? If stereotypes are anything to go by, it's fucking bizarre. He's just been distracted, though, right? Aiming high after losing his window of opportunity for sports scholarships. Totally makes sense. Nerds don't get snatch, but they get into good schools...

It's all way too fucking much to deal with at once.

But, wait, okay. The derailed train finds its way back on track. Why would Craig, a boy with whom Stan rarely intimately associated, assume he was gay? With Kyle, no less? He could've just been saying shit, but Craig Tucker doesn't just say shit, does he? Fuck. What signs had there been? What had caused it to seem that way?

He was always hanging around Kyle, sure. That's what best friends do. Like, um, Wendy and Bebe. They're way close. But, wait. They all hang out with other people, too, don't they? Stan's always been glued to Kyle's side, even if they'd had Kenny, Butters, and Cartman with them. But he sees Bebe with Clyde a lot. And with other people. And okay, maybe she's with Wendy more than anyone else, it seems a little more healthy than Stan's own apparent clinginess. Come to think of it, Stan's seen Craig with Clyde less than he's seen either of them with Tweek or Token (their best friends, respectively). And maybe they're trying to keep it secret, sure, but they can spend time together without speculation, right? They can hide out in their group setting and...

Shit. Craig had thought the same thing about him and Kyle, hadn't he? And he'd figured they were too obvious, so he toned it down with Clyde and that'd been that.

"Oh, fuck," Stan groans, dropping his head into his hands. He's more gay with Kyle than Craig is with Clyde. More out in the open, more obvious. The rumor mill might already have speculations on it. His frown deepens. The fucking rumor mill. And, what the fuck, this feeling is more of an 'aw, shit, they're talking about me' thing than an 'aw, shit, they think I'm gay' thing. It's really fucking scary. But he doesn't know why it's scary. It just is.

This isn't normal. Is not fucking normal at all in any way shape or form. It isn't fucking fair, because what the fuck, Stan is average. He's the most average kid he knows. He's not supposed to have deep issues or emotional trouble. All he should worry about are grades, getting a job, and college. The standard. Average.

Except that totally contradicts his entire philosophy of life. He still goes out for sports. He still aims high. He tries his fucking damnedest and works for shit and that's above average. It has to count for something, doesn't it? Fuck dammit, he really hates change. He doesn't need a fucking identity crisis to take a shit all over his already-overwrought psyche.

He never really thinks about himself. He thinks about what he should be. And that's all up-and-down and fucking screwy, isn't it? And up-and-down screwy is precisely how he's been acting throughout this whole thing. Middle ground. He needs to get to middle ground and he needs to fucking stay there.

But how the fuck does he find middle ground? Dammit all, actually doing shit is hard. Exceptionally so when you can't even figure out what the fuck's going on in your own head.

"Okay. Okay okay okay. One thing at a time. Alphabetical order... ah, shit. Middle ground, the rumor mill, gay, priorities. First would be, uh," he stops to whine and pull at his hair, "I'm talking to myself!"

Gay. That's first alphabetically. Alright. He has no problem with it, it doesn't bother him, it's cool. Shouldn't be a problem. But he can't stop thinking about it. And yeah, maybe the smart thing to do would be to calm down and _then_ think about it, but dammit, he wants answers _now_. Answers to what, though? Is there a question that needs answering? And why is this, of all things, something he feels so strongly about? Especially since he hasn't _felt _in weeks. Fuck, this is so confusing. So Goddamned confusing. His stomach churns and he takes a shaky breath in. This probably means what he thinks it means. He makes a beeline for the bathroom and abandons all dignity. Yeah, he fucking hurls.

"Oh, God." Stan whimpers and curls in on himself, shoulders shaking and chest heaving. He hears his mother call for him and musters up the strength to shout some generic platitude or another back. But, no, he's not fine. He pulls his inhaler from his jacket pocket and takes a few desperate hits. His breathing steadies, but the uncomfortable feeling at his core stays. This isn't fucking fair. Realizations like this don't just happen, do they?

Kyle would probably know. Him and his Lifetime and soap operas and stupid face that Stan accidentally kissed. Son of a bitch started the whole thing. The arcade was his fucking idea, and he let Craig bum a ride, and he'd wanted to kill the zombies and that game had been right by that fucking corner with the fucking door that fucking pushed him over. He isn't sure if he's mad at the contractor, the interior designer, or Kyle. Or Craig. Fucking Craig.

With a sigh, he rises to his feet and turns to face the mirror. He doesn't _look_ any different. Minus the tousled hair and exhausted expression. He looks... sleepy. Which he is.

And so he brushes his teeth, stumbles down the hall, and falls into bed.


	6. Cognizance

A/N: I don't even know what happened. Like, muse died, was resurrected, lather, rinse, repeat. I am determined to finish this, however. Life and school and other excuses happened too, but they shouldn't be too big of a problem from here on. This is kind of short, but it ended where it ended. Onward, ho!

* * *

After waking up and having a long, drawn out repeat of his earlier existential freakout, Stan decides not to involve Kyle just yet. He has a backup, after all. A level-headed, completely uninvolved and unbiased backup. A backup who is not currently caught up in an eighty-billion-point polygon of complicated bullfuck that has long since gone over his head.

"Hey. Wendy. Wends. Wenderson. Wendifer?" He taps his phone nervously, overcome with nerves for what seems like the thousandth time in 24 hours.

"Stan. Staniel. Stanley. What is it?"

"I'm going to tell you something weird and totally out of our usual comfort zone as friends. I am then going to ask your opinion on the matter. Sound good?"

"Sure. Hit me."

And he does. He assaults her poor ears with a barrage of nonsense sentences and complex explanations and a general sense of panic. In response, she whistles.

"That... blows. I mean, I have no idea what to even... gimme a minute."

Stan bites his lip and trembles through the silence, trying desperately to quell the rising fear that he's made a huge mistake. It's Wendy, he keeps reminding himself. Wendy is a moral, sensible, trustworthy specimen of girl. Not a rumor-spreading slutbag like most chicks. Unless she is... secretly. Stan's eyes go wide.

"Okay, I've got it," she says suddenly, causing Stan to jolt in surprise. "You're obviously just now realizing all this. If it's got you this upset, it's definitely important, but you could just be caught up in everything. Sleep on it some more. Try it out a little. Just keep turning it over on your head and don't try to convince yourself of anything. Be cool."

"...Why are you so smart?"

"Neuroscience and blah blah blah. Anything else you need?" Stan ponders this for a moment.

"Can we go somewhere? ASAP? I think just, like, hanging around with someone intelligent will clear my head."

"Sure, yeah, totally. My house? My parents-"

"Aren't home. Yeah, I know. Nobody's parents are ever home. Ever."

"Whatever you say, buddy. See you soon." And she hangs up.

He frowns and rolls out of bed, landing conveniently on his jacket and pants. Five minutes later he's out the door, shouting some generic excuse at his parents and attempting to tie his shoes as he goes. It's cold as balls outside, which he expected, but it's still infuriating. It's heightening his awareness, ebbing away the fuzzy-brained comfort the warmth of his house and bed provide. He's suddenly conscious of every single thing that is wrong with his life and curling up in a drainage ditch and waiting for death is looking mighty appealing.

He's practically in a trance by the time he knocks on Wendy's door. She answers with a small, concerned smile, and in no time is fussing over him like the average mama bear.

"I know I don't have it that bad or anything," he says at one point, gripping a mug of hot chocolate, "but life could be so much better and that pisses me off."

"It's kind of an inopportune time for your teen angst period to set in," Wendy adds. "Like, sexuality crisis accompanied with high school drama plus standard teenage malaise is about as bad as it can possibly get for someone like you."

"Are you being sarcastic and/or latently rude?"

"No, dumbass," she laughs, swatting at his arm. "I'm just saying that yeah, you don't have it bad in the grand scheme of things, but your life sucks pretty hard when you aren't looking at the big picture."

Stan considers this a moment, then curls in on himself. He wishes he was attracted to her. This would be a good time to cuddle up to her or play with her hair or something else ridiculous.

And then an epiphany strikes him. More like bludgeons him with the obvious, but hey, that isn't what matters.

"I have an idea."

"Oh? Pray tell, oh mighty king of non-sequiturs." He feigns a scowl and gently shoves her, causing another giggle fit. Girls, honestly.

"Okay. You're like, a girl. A pretty awesome one, who is pretty and awesome. Logically, I should feel some kind of something for you, right?"

Wendy looks distinctly uncomfortable. Right, then.

"Well, like. I was thinking. What if I kissed you, to see if I feel anything at all? I mean, like, I don't think it'd mean I like you, but I figure that most dudes would get some kind of reaction from kissing a pretty girl."

"...Yeah, okay," she murmurs, raising an eyebrow, "why the hell not? Can't hurt to try, I guess."

"This is the weirdest favor I've ever asked of anyone, I think. And that's saying something." He laughs nervously and turns to face her, leaning in slightly. She's still taller than him, but the difference isn't so bad when they're sitting down. She's got a few faded freckles on her cheeks, probably remnants of Summer. Her eyes are big and hazel and he should probably be focusing on them and how pretty they are, but they're just not drawing him in. Okay, no biggie. She has nice enough lips, and they look soft.

She closes the gap and, hey, they are soft. Her eyes close. His stay open. His heartbeat remains steady, his chest calm and free of sudden twisting and spasms. He can't even bring himself to kiss back much. Then it's over and she looks at him, questioning.

"Anything?"

"Nothing." He bites his lip, ignoring the distinct lack of tingling and electricity there.

"Well." She pats his arm, gentle and understanding. "Don't just make judgments based on this, okay? Think it over more." He scoffs.

"I wish I was dumb enough to just leave it at this."

"It's a good thing, Stanley, that you aren't dumb in the slightest." She smiles and brushes the stray hair from his face.

"Wends." He looks at her, suddenly uncertain. "Thanks. I mean, like, for helping out. I don't think anyone else would've bothered."

"I'm not even gonna try to counter that because I know you'll argue right back."

"You're right." Stan rises, setting his now-cool mug on the coffee table and stretching out.

"Before you go," Wendy says with a coy smirk, "I wanna know if there's anyone you think you like. The source of your crisis, if you will."

"Gross, no," he spits, "I'm not even ready to _think_ about touching cocks. Especially South Park cocks. Everyone here sucks."

"Good for you, buddy."

Within ten minutes, he's heading back home, mood somewhat elevated. The ditches have begun to lose their appeal, at least. He can't help but wonder, though, how he'll ever know for sure. Short of man-sex, he can't think of anything that'll seal the deal. He could potentially repeat the Wendy experiment, but who the fuck would he try that shit on?

The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to try it. That should probably be an indicator or something – the urge to kiss a dude – but he ignores that in favor of considering his options.

Kenny would probably make an ordeal of it.

Butters would be confused. And he's Butters. So no.

Kyle is his super best friend. Big no. No. Never ever.

He knows who he trusts the most, however, and it's pulling at his brain and driving him absolutely batshit. He grumbles about it after arriving home and collapsing back into bed, thumb poised over Kyle's speed dial number. He should tell him about this shit, anyway.

"Fuck it." He hits it and starts to regret it by the second ring.

"Yeah, dude?" Kyle answers.

"Minor crisis, please assist."

"Be there in five."

Okay, regret gone. What the fuck would he do without Kyle? Honestly.

He'd probably be dead from his own insanity, for one thing. He'd also suck as a person. And lots of other bad things. Stan sighs into his pillow, waiting.

The door opens and he hears the too-familiar sound of Kyle kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket.

"Start talking." Stan's nerves pick that moment to seize up and he practically has a heart attack right there, but instead blurts out the simplest answer he can think of.

"Gay."

"...Excuse me?"

"Gay. Me. I. Fuck, man, I dunno. There is so much shit going on in my head." Stan groans and Kyle sits himself at the foot of the bed, brow furrowed.

"I am so confused. Start from the beginning."

"I've been dwelling on shit and overthinking things and I thought, hey, what if there's a reason I'm so caught up in this whole gay business? 'Cause I've been thinking about Craig and Clyde, like a lot-"

"Gross! Of all the people to fantasize about..."

"Not like _that_, you dickhead. I was thinking about their relationship and gay and people judging me and more gay and I kissed Wendy and something tells me I'm not just caught up in my own paranoid bullshit."

"Wendy– no, okay, I still don't get it."

"That's the abridged version. The full version makes even less sense. I'm not actually sure I could put my existential freakout into words." Kyle frowns and scoots closer to Stan, head tilted curiously.

"So, okay. You think you might shop on the other side of the street, but you don't know because you've been freaking out too hard to, like, rationally think."

"Basically."

"And I'm assuming you kissed Wendy to see if you still got boners for chicks, right?"

"Correct." Stan rolls onto his side and frowns. "You're handling this well."

"Did you expect me to handle it not well? I mean, you're like, this huge part of my life, as totally faggy as that sounds. I would never just – is it okay to say faggy?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not gonna call the ACLU to come beat you down or something. It's a fucking word."

"Anyway. I'm not gonna judge you on this shit. I mean, if you were thinking of dipping your balls in Cartman's ass it'd be a different story, but this is no biggie."

"That's a load off my mind, I guess. I just don't know what to do."

"Wanna make out?"

Stan chokes on nothing, his heart rate increasing as his stomach does acrobatics and his brain blanks.

"I'm kidding. But we can totally copy the Wendy thing. I consider myself heteroflexible." Kyle winks obnoxiously and Stan tries to catch his breath.

"Okay," he manages to squeak out, and before he knows it he's got his mouth pressed to Kyle's in a surprisingly gentle kiss. It's different from Wendy, somehow, and his eyes close and he kisses back and the lips against his are chapped and kinda dry and his chest is wound so tight that he's bound to fucking explode. It's a moment caught between "oh shit" and "oh yes" and Stan has no idea how to feel. It's everything, as opposed to nothing with Wendy.

As they pull apart, he realizes that he kind of wants to vomit. Fucking wonderful.


	7. Blowout

"So, verdict?" Kyle asks, looking completely unperturbed. Apart from the way he licks his lips. Probably a reflex, but Jesus tapdancing Christ. Why? Stan struggles to find words, vaguely wondering if vomit or an answer will leave his mouth first.

"I..." Stan pinches the bridge of his noise, eyes shut tightly.

"Liked it?" Kyle suggests. Stan groans in response, slumping forward and burying his face in his hands. "Dude, it's okay." Kyle places a comforting hand on Stan's shoulder as the latter boy attempts to get his heart rate under control.

"I hate this and I hate that it makes so much sense." Stan wrinkles his nose, straightening back up again and crossing his legs. "I haven't had a girlfriend since pre-puberty. Or a crush on a girl. Or anything."

"Have you had crushes on dudes?"

"I don't think so."

"Then how do you know you're not just, like, asexual or some shit? I mean, it's possible to make yourself think you like something."

"I keep catching myself thinking weird shit. Seriously weird shit. Like, Kenny's attractive and Token has a nice body and not just thinking that in the no homo bro way. In the can't stop staring or thinking about it way." Kyle raises an eyebrow. Stan feels like his face is on fire.

"For how long?"

"I dunno. Never thought about it." Stan pauses to think, drawing up strange, uncomfortable things he'd kept so deeply suppressed that he'd practically forgotten about them. "Seventh grade? Whenever the locker room started getting awkward."

"Well." Kyle seems to be fumbling to find words and that kind of terrifies Stan. "This doesn't change anything."

"Wasn't really expecting it to," Stan mumbles, averting his eyes.

"They call straight dudes who hang with gay dudes 'fag stags.' Like fag hags, except guys." Kyle nods as if he's agreeing with himself. "This makes me a fag stag."

Stan actually snorts at this, cracking a real smile and bringing himself to make eye contact again. His stomach does those stupid somersaults again. Fuck.

"But really, if you need to talk or scream or cry or anything, dude..."

"I know. Who else would I go to?"

"... Craig?" They both laugh, albeit a bit weakly. It's kind of comforting, however, knowing they can still laugh at really stupid shit. Nothing's changed. Stan has to keep telling himself that.

They wind up reclining on Stan's bed, staring up at the ceiling and talking about nothing. The topic changes every two minutes and that's fine, that's perfect, that's what Stan needs. He's feeling about as abnormal as one can feel in South Park, and that's scary.

"You know what kinda weirds me out?" Kyle asks, and Stan's heart just about stops. He can't take Kyle being 'weirded out' by this.

"What."

"That you just, sorta... forgave me after that huge blowout with Cartman. Shit, you didn't even forgive me. You just called me to run crisis control." Kyle furrows his eyebrows. "I figured you were mad."

"Mad at the situation," Stan corrects, relieved. "Then more serious things happened and I can't handle shit like that without my best friend."

"I'm always here for you, dude."

"I thought I was supposed to be the gay one." And boy, does that feel weird to say.

"Fuck you."

"You're just digging yourself deeper."

"Into your ass."

Stan laughs despite his insides churning and the disturbing way his pants tighten. That's not new or anything, but it's definitely the first time the notion of sex with Kyle has turned him on.

It suddenly occurs to Stan that he has never watched gay porn.

"You should get home," he says after a while.

"If you really want me to, man. I figured you wouldn't wanna be alone with your thoughts or anything." While this is quite true, Stan isn't sure he himself wants to be here, especially when he's all antsy and crazy. Having Kyle there just makes it worse.

"I... I dunno. Yeah. Stay for a while. Dinner at least."

"Gravy! I gotta take a shower, I reek. Try not to get too much jizz on that Broncos poster I got you."

"Go fuck yourself, Kyle." Stan says it half-heartedly, grinning lazily as Kyle waggles his eyebrows seductively before leaving the room.

Naturally, Stan goes straight for his laptop. It doesn't take him too long to find a decent porn site, and he opts to go the "top rated videos" route. The number one video looks good – two lithe but defined dudes going at it. Stan decides that this is a learning session foremost and a jerkoff session second. He locks the bedroom door, anyway.

Kyle's sort of a long showerer (that jewfro is hell to handle when wet) and Stan has never been more thankful for that. Driven by his libido, his better judgment gone, Stan plugs in his headphones and hits 'play' on the video.

They're just stripping each other, which he's always found kind of boring, so he skips about ten minutes in. Oh. _Oh._ Mutual 69 blowjobs, okay, that's cool. Very different from straight porn. And lesbian porn. Which he never really got off to, anyw- oh god. There are hands and fingers and it's all happening so fast that Stan can't help but skip forward more.

And now they're full-on fucking. Stan is caught between horror, fascination, and arousal. Perfect! He sort of loses himself in the next five minutes, hypnotized by the rhythmic movement of their hips, coming back around after witnessing his first gay cumshot.

His pants are unzipped and everything's just out there and he's pretty sure he just had the best orgasm of his life, but he can't really be sure. He pauses the video, closes the tab, and clears the recent browser history. Then, he goes about carefully cleaning up, doing his very best to hide the evidence. He tries to keep the idea of having his first "gay" orgasm with Kyle over out of his brain.

He hears the shower cut off the moment he zips his pants back up. Stan declares himself the king of awesome timing. He opens the door to air out the room and throws himself across his bed, pretending to be engrossed with some app on his phone.

Kyle marches in dressed only in a towel of Stan's, clothes in his arms. He dumps the rumpled clothing unceremoniously onto the floor and goes to drop the towel, but freezes in place.

"This isn't weird, is it?"

"Only if you make it weird," Stan says boredly, not looking up from his phone. In reality, he's quite glad he's completely spent, because otherwise he'd likely be sneaking glances and popping semis and really, he doesn't need that.

He takes this time to muse on how latent his attraction to dudes has been. He's never really been too self-involved, so it's unsurprising that this has gone over his head for the past few years. And he doesn't jerk off a whole lot, and when he does it's typically to nothing. And he's kind of completely ignored the way he feels in the gym locker room, surrounded by naked, sweaty, kind of attractive guys.

This whole self-discovery thing is hard. Literally and figuratively. Haha, boners. Stan shakes his head and rolls onto his back, looking up at Kyle, who is now partially dressed in his dirty clothes.

"I'm bored."

"I've been thinking..." Kyle begins, pointedly avoiding eye contact as he dresses. Oh, fuck. Just as soon as things are kind of going okay, too.

"That's never a good thing."

"I'm being serious."

"Then talk to me. What have you been thinking about?"

"Are you..." Kyle sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I don't know how to put this into words." Stan says nothing, hanging on every last thing Kyle says. "You're not... do you... could it be... fuck."

"Spit it out," Stan demands, growing weary of this very quickly.

"Is it possible that you're gay for me?" Kyle blurts before covering his mouth, eyes wide. "That isn't how I meant to say that."

Stan feels numb. That's a hell of a slap in the face.

"No, shit, dude, I'm sorry, I just..."

"Fuck you, Kyle."

"I was just wondering and-"

"Here's a newsflash: my life doesn't revolve around you, and neither does my sexuality," Stan keeps his voice level and calm, despite the rage building up inside him and the tears that threaten to prick the backs of his eyes. "I still don't even know if I'm really gay. It's been, like, twenty-four hours. And then you spring this shit on me."

"I'm sorry, dude, I just... I wanted to know." Kyle looks regretful and terrified but Stan is past the point of sympathy.

"Narcissist."

"No! It isn't that!"

"What is it, then? Scared your best buddy jacks off to you at night? Afraid to share your bed with a faggot who's got a crush on you?"

"I..."

"Fuck. You. I'm not gay for _anyone_, especially not assholes like you." Stan brushes past him, almost proud of himself for not throwing a punch, and stomps down the stairs and out of his house. He isn't sure what he's intending to accomplish by storming out of his own fucking home, but it's better than being trapped in there with Kyle. Fuck that asshole.

He hears Kyle calling after him, faintly because he's off in the distance, but he doesn't care. He keeps walking, head down, intent on finding somewhere he can be alone.

Really, if he thinks about it, it doesn't make sense that it pisses him off so much. It had been an honest inquiry, if a bit ignorant and presumptuous. He'd always figured Kyle was better than that, but whatever.

And so what if he has a thing for Kyle? Which he doesn't. But even if he did, it wouldn't mean he's gay _for_ Kyle. Sexuality's ingrained in who you are, Stan is pretty sure. Attraction to a certain person isn't. Even if that person is pretty much ingrained in who you are, too.

Fuck.

Stan has no idea what his brain is doing.

He decides to put an end to the situation that got him here in the first place. He slumps down against a tree, now well out of the neighborhood, and pulls out his phone. He searches for Cartman's number in his contact list.

He's going to do something drastic for once.

* * *

**A/N**: After almost a year, a wild update appeared! Author used post! It's super effective!

I'm going to finish this, dammit.


	8. Distractions

_ here's the deal: me and kyle kissed through some freak accident and now like 3 people think we're gay together but we're not._

_ What__ brought __this __on, __fag? _Stan snorts at the insult, feeling like it's simply tacked on to Cartman's otherwise direct message. Like a signature.

_ kyle's an ass who is obsessed with keeping his rep and i'm feeling vengeful _

_ So__ you're__ telling __me __he's __gay__ and__ you're __outing __him._ That's worth another laugh, though it's bitter and tight.

_ no i'm telling you what youve been dying to know the past couple weeks._

_ Accidents are only funny if they're children. I can't do anything with this._

_ boo hoo. just don't fuck bebe over. i told you what you wanna to know._

_ Bebe is the least of my concerns. _

Stan decides to leave it at that. Whatever Cartman ends up twisting this into will be absolutely nothing compared to the sting of betrayal he feels deep in his chest. He still feels stupid, standing out in the freezing cold, angry at something that might've been nothing at all, afraid to go home lest he find Kyle there.

Fuck Kyle, he decides.

Stan kicks at the snow, succeeding only in soaking his shoes through. He hadn't had the sense to grab snow boots before storming out. It'd actually probably be really weird if he had – _'Hold __on, __don't __start __following __me__ yet, __I __gotta __get __my __boots __on.' _That's almost funny. He thinks about how cold his toes are and ceases to find it amusing.

"Home it is, then," he murmurs into the cold, still air. He trudges back as darkness begins to fall, shivering and shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. He probably should've grabbed his coat, too. Should've, could've, would've. Whatever.

He avoids thinking about sexuality – that'd probably drive him nuts – and instead focuses on how warm his bed is, and how he'll never have to share it again because fuck Kyle. And Kenny doesn't like sharing a bed with him, and Butters isn't allowed to have sleepovers, and no way in hell is he letting anyone else in his room ever. He'd kind of just like to hole up in there until New Year's is over and he's forced to go back to school, where he's guessing he'll spend his time trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

New Year's Eve. The day after tomorrow, and he's not going to be spending it with Kyle for once. Good, change is good, Stan can handle that. He'll go to bed before midnight, or he'll watch rednecks shoot off fireworks from his window. Maybe his dad will sneak him some cheap champagne.

He ignores his parents' inquiries as he throws the front door open and makes a beeline for the stairs, shaking melting snow off himself as he goes. His phone buzzes about halfway up, but he doesn't stop to read the text until he's safe in his (thankfully empty) room.

_Find __your __answers? __:) __Thinking __about __you._

Wendy. Goddammit.

_yes__ and __no.__ need__ to__ think._

_ I__ know__ you've __probably __heard__ this __from__ Kyle __but __if __you __need __to __talk, __I'm__ here. _Stan cringes, but he really does appreciate that.

_thanks __wends __you're __the__ best.__ i__ think__ i __need __some__ me__ time __for __a __while __though_

_ Understood. __Feel __better!_ What the hell is that supposed to mean? Fucking psychic girls knowing when shit's out of whack. He's pretty much convinced she knows something's very, very wrong. Or maybe he'd been a little hysterical when he talked to her. Whichever. He's not going to talk to her, though. Or anyone. And he almost feels bad for turning her offer down, but the only person he'd trust with this is gone, replaced by a total dick who makes stupid assumptions.

Stan begins to regret that he'll forever associate this day with his first gay porn orgasm.

His anger cools to a simmer and he's starting to feel thoroughly burned out, perfectly okay with passing out in bed, teeth not brushed and uncomfortably damp clothes still sticking to his body. Maybe he'll catch pneumonia again, only this time maybe he won't just almost die.

Fuck Kyle.

He misses Kyle.

Well, actually, he misses his best friend, not the artist formerly known as Kyle. And he misses him for reasons that are completely platonic because he is not gay specifically for his (ex?) best friend. He likes to think he has better taste than that. Even though he isn't sure what his type is. But it's definitely not stupidly tall, smart, and short-tempered. And it's certainly not ginger, audacious, and tactless.

Maybe his type is the cool, collected type. Level-headed and stoic. Like Craig. Wait, no. Craig sucks. Maybe it's the passionate, loving, emotional type. Unafraid to show how he feels. Like Butters. Or, not Butters, because Butters is sensitive and dating someone like him would be terrifying.

Stan doesn't have the patience to figure out this bullshit. He'll ask Wendy for her input when he's feeling less neurotic.

Ew, neurotic. This isn't his thing at all. It's Kyle's. Kyle is the one who's supposed to freak out and go through existential crises over insignificant things. Kyle is the one who's supposed to blow things out of proportion and take them the entirely wrong way.

Only Stan definitely isn't blowing this out of proportion or anything, so he needs to stop letting himself think that because he misses his pal. Study buddy. Player two. Carpool compatriot. Locker-sharer. Confidant. Partner in crime. Sidekick. First mate. Noble steed. They don't do it a lot anymore, but Stan's minor Napoleon complex necessitates piggy back rides. He can see so much from up there. It's like a whole new world. And it's not a blow to his dignity or anything, even if Kyle gets kind of winded and needs a shoulder rub after the fact.

But he doesn't need to be missing him, nope. He's gonna stop. Because. Fuck Kyle. It's a nice little mantra. Fuck Kyle, fuck him. And not literally, because he isn't Stan's type and the idea of sex with Kyle makes him want to puke.

He doesn't examine this notion too much.

Kyle's a good kisser.

Balls.

Stan groans and buries his face in his pillow, praying for sleep to claim him. It does, eventually, though it's fitful and permeated by weird, abstract dreams that Stan will never be able to remember, let alone decipher.

He wakes up alive and free of pneumonia symptoms, with 7 texts and 2 missed calls. All of them are from Kyle. He takes a moment to skim over the messages, almost feeling a pang of guilt at Kyle's desperation.

_dude, __I'm __sorry. __I'm__ such __an __idiot.__ seriously,__ I __don't __know__ what __I __was __thinking. __I __fucking __hate __this __and __I __know__ I __don't __deserve __it __right __now __but __just __ugh __please __forgive__ me__ eventually __maybe._

The self-deprecation is a little much. Stan is both angry and sad at this message, which is weird and very polarizing. The thinks he's more angry, though. It's kind of comforting to be able to pick an emotion and stick with it.

Stan could easily lament on how hard it is to figure himself out these days, but he has more important things to do. Like, um. Tell Bebe and Craig and Clyde that the whole thing's over with. Yeah. Even though he's pretty sure Craig will get all pissy and be like "well now you have nothing to lose, Marsh, and you're going to out us so I'm just going to eat your soul instead."

Yep, sounds likely.

Bebe will probably be relieved and appreciative, unlike _some_people, so he decides to go share the news.

He decides to make things interesting and show up unannounced. It's not like her parents will be home or anything. He opts to walk and as soon as he reaches the Stevenses' lawn, he spots Kenny sauntering down their driveway. Stan stops to make a face and ponder this, and Kenny gives him a dainty little wave and an obnoxious wink before continuing on his way. Well. That's another thing Stan'll have to investigate later.

He tells Bebe all about the Cartman thing in her front doorway, keeping himself cool and dispassionate. He breaks eye contact and goes rigid when she asks where Kyle is and if he had anything to do with it. It's enough of an answer for her.

"Stan. I'm a professional fag hag. If you ever need to talk..." God, he wishes people would stop saying– wait. She said fag hag.

"I'm not gay." He feels like this should become his slogan. Bebe studies him for a moment, one eyebrow quirked.

"Oh." She scrunches her face, evidently trying to think of a way out of this. She opts for throwing her arms around him instead. "Thanks for not throwing me under the bus."

"I don't think that'd be very gentlemanly of me," Stan mumbles into her shoulder. She snorts.

"Who says chivalry is dead?" Bebe pulls back and smiles before kissing him on the cheek. He smiles back, a little awkward, but he still feels kind of guilty for lying by omission. He'd rather she remain ignorant to his true motives in letting the cat out of the bag.

"I should go."

"Toodles," she says, giving him that same little wave as Kenny had. "Tell Kenny I say hi." There's some sort of weird look in her eye, but Stan chooses not to read too deeply into it. He mentions nothing about seeing Kenny leave a little while ago and simply agrees to pass on the greeting, then says his own goodbye before high-tailing it out of there.

Stan decides not to tell Craig and Clyde about it. Bebe will do it. She's a professional fag hag. Professional. What constitutes a professional fag hag? Does she have business cards? A website? He muses on this for a moment before his phone buzzes, signifying a new text.

Kyle again. Shit.

_dude__ what __the __fuck? __did__ you __tell __Cartman? __how__ does __he__ know? __does __anyone __else __know? __is __there __anything __up__ on __Facebook? __this __is __kind __of __more __serious __than __a __little __fight, __Stan._

Stan doesn't ever check Facebook. He hates Facebook. Almost as much as he hates it when Kyle flips the fuck out over totally insignificant shit. No one is going to care if Cartman "outs" them. And if they do, they've only got a year and a half of school left. Plus, shit like this blows over easily, ignored in favor of bigger drama. Cartman might not even spread it around. He has his moments of relative humaneness. He might just hold onto it for blackmail if he ever needs an extra player in a grand scheme of his.

For the first time in a while, Stan truly does not give a fuck.

He ignores the text, shoving his phone in his pocket with something approaching delight. So, he thinks, this is what it's like to not care. He walks home with a spring in his step, almost ready to burst into song and dance like some cheesy musical. He's not _that _gay, though, so he opts for humming to himself and strolling along.

He's pretty gay, now that he thinks about it.

* * *

Later that day, Stan decides to ask Wendy about the ins and outs of being a gay man. Not that she'd know firsthand, but she hangs out with Bebe a lot and gay knowledge is probably easy to pick up. Plus, he trusts her more than he trusts Bebe. There's just something about the blonde's boobs that makes him wary.

"What do you think my 'type' is?" He asks into the phone, sprawled out on his bed with his head hanging off the edge. He's never felt more like a chick.

"Do I look like some sort of gay Yenta?" That's a yiddish word. Stan frowns. "I do have some thoughts on the issue, though."

"I like when you contradict yourself."

"I think," she begins, ignoring that quip, "you'd be into guys who are sort of like you. Like, passionate, but cool and logical when they need to be. But you wouldn't want a carbon copy of yourself. Maybe somebody a little more high-strung to counterbalance how collected you are. Usually, anyway. And I think you'd like a guy taller than you." She pauses to giggle. That bitch. "With big ideas so he can keep up with you. Not somebody who makes it obvious he's smarter than you, though. An equal, mostly."

"I'm going to have to outsource in order to find guys, aren't I?"

"Maybe, maybe not." There's a weird lilt to her voice. Huh. "Isn't it kind of soon to be thinking about relationships?"

"I think I wanna at least address the idea before I go around waving my rainbow flag. Get a feel for it, y'know?"

"Sure." A topic change is in order.

"I don't get how Craig and Clyde work." He scrunches his nose. Craig's an asshole. All this is Craig's fault.

"Unconditional love." Silence. Stan tries to figure out why that felt like a blow to the chest.

"Did you know about them before I did?"

"Please," Wendy scoffs, and Stan pictures her flipping her hair over her shoulder, "I knew about them before _they_ did."

"How?"

"Some people are just obvious. Easy to read, yeah? It's not too hard to tell when someone's head over heels." There's another pause. "Also Bebe."

Stan kind-of laughs, but his mind is elsewhere. He rushes his farewell and hangs up a little too quickly. He isn't quite sure why he's so shaken.

He needs a distraction.

He dials Kenny's home phone, because Kenny is too poor to have a cellphone. Even one of those cheap-ass prepaid deals. Waffles on the table are more important than cellphones in the McCormick household. And rightly so. Also, phones are a pain in the ass.

Kenny, by some miracle, answers, saving Stan from the awkwardness of having to ask for him.

"Let's get wasted."

"BYOB," Kenny replies boredly.

"Let's go somewhere and hit on waitresses," Stan amends.

"Deal! You're buying!"

Stan can deal with that. He just needs an escape. Someone who doesn't know (or care) about the shitstorm happening in his brain. Someone to have a good time with. Kenny fits the bill just fine.

"Meet me in an hour. Bring your appetite."

"I'm never without it." Stan laughs, sad as that statement may be.

He hangs up with a sick feeling in his stomach. He can't remember the last time he was alone with Kenny. You know, sans Kyle.

This had better a damned good distraction.

* * *

It actually kind of is a good change of pace. Stan laughs more than he can remember laughing in the past two or so weeks, his guard down and his mind off everything serious. He nearly spews Diet Coke from his nose about five times as Kenny recounts tales of motorboating and bodyshots gone wrong and awkward "tune in, Tokyo" sessions. Kenny wears a self-satisfied expression, smirking each time Stan wheezes, his shoulders shaking in silent mirth. Here, in the low, shitty Hooters lighting, tits and asses all around him, Stan wonders what would've happened if he'd gone to Kenny instead of Kyle.

Very different things, obviously.

Kenny gives him a weird look, blue eyes growing dark as he leans in closer. Oh, it's serious time now. Stan feels hot under his collar. He wants to kiss him. Dear god. He wants to kiss Kenny. That's so weird. And very gay. His doubt is ebbing with each moment he glances at Kenny's lips. This whole self-discovery thing is exhausting.

"I wanna tell you something."

"Who did you kill?"

"Someone's social reputation."

Stan fights a laugh, because, well. Been there, done that.

"I'm kind of seeing somebody. Somebody really popular and hot. Like, way out of my league." Kenny scrunches up his face, apparently displeased with this. "I thought I was gonna have to settle for butterfaces until graduation."

"Congratulations," Stan says, studying Kenny's broad, angular shoulders in lieu of caring. Lust for a best friend is a confusing feeling, he decides.

"It's Bebe, in case you were wondering. I mean, I think you already know," Kenny pauses to shove something greasy into his mouth. "I saw you walking to her house earlier, and I was like, 'well what the fuck is that'? But she was all, 'it's cool, I'm helping him with science.' I mean, I know you're like, asexual and all, but why can't Kyle help you with science?" Stan bristles at this.

"We're not, um. Talking right now." He bites his lip, breaking eye contact.

"He's being a bitch? Still?"

"Something like that."

"C'est la vie," Kenny says with a shrug. "You guys'll be fine."

Stan just grunts in response, suddenly wishing for a black hole to open beneath his feet and swallow him. He pretends to listen as Kenny goes on another tangent, but his focus is long gone.

"I think I'm gonna kill her rep, dude. She's got no idea what she's getting herself into." That, though, Stan hears. And he can't hold everything in anymore.

"Kenny."

"What?"

"I'm gay."

"Color me surprised," Kenny deadpans.

"I'm not asexual." Stan sinks his teeth into his lip, suddenly feeling very stupid.

"Look, dude, if you're looking for experimentation, I'm flattered, but I'm trying this stupid monogamy thing right now..."

"No, man! Sick!" Stan does his best to look disgusted despite the definite interest his libido takes in Kenny's talk of experimentation.

"Ouch."

"I didn't mean it like that. I'm just... still really freaked out by all this, okay? Sex is the farthest thing from my mind." That's a lie. He's seventeen and his hormones are raging, even if they're deeply confused.

"Yeah, yeah. Good luck, I'm proud of you, whatever."

"Thanks. I think."

"New Year's is tomorrow."

"I know."

"You gonna come party with us? I'll get you and Kyle all fixed up and we can ring in the year with cheap wine coolers and shitty movies in Cartman's basement. Like old times!"

"Cartman's a dick lately and I don't want to talk to Kyle."

"Well, fine. But the offer stands."

"I'm sorry."

Kenny scoffs and waves a hand dismissively. "Dude, I get it. You're going through some shit and want to be a recluse. It's fine."

"Some other time, dude, yeah? When I've got my shit sorted." Stan looks sheepish. Kenny smiles.

"Whatever, man. Just don't lose yourself in this."

Those words ring in Stan's ears as he makes his way home, and he leaves it at that. He doesn't have the energy to think anymore.

* * *

A/N: Readers, you are awesome and lovely and encouraging. That is all.


	9. Inevitability

New Year's Eve, Stan decides, is proving to be largely uneventful. He's spent most of the day dragging himself around his house, eating cookies and pondering on his decision that he's doomed to end up fat and alone in a run-down studio apartment in Denver. Maybe that's a bit of an extreme, but the holiday pounds he's been packing on aren't doing much to give him hope for the future.

His parents leave (surprise, surprise) at some hour of the evening to go party it up and ring in the new year like they're not giant losers like he is. Stan wallows in apathy, spread out on his bed and wondering how long it'll take him to gain 300 pounds. He turns on his TV, changes the channel to something he won't pay attention to, and stares up at the ceiling.

He's not really tired or anything, but he's pretty sure he could fall asleep like this. White noise, a disinterest in everything around him, a kind-of-warm bed beneath him. It's almost nice. He closes his eyes, breathing deep and trying to clear his mind.

He bolts upward at the sound of something hitting his window.

At first he figures it's the wind, whipping shit around and driving clumps of snow into his window. But then he hears it again, a slightly different sound, like a bigger object hitting the glass. He turns the TV off. Another thump. _Oh shit_, he thinks, panic rising in his gut. It's Bigfoot. Or Manbearpig. Or maybe Scuzzlebutt's ghost, seeking revenge. With each passing second, the creature in his mind morphs into something more and more sinister.

He hears a yelp from outside, and it sounds decidedly human. Okay, so someone's fucking with him. His fear dissipates into annoyance as he storms to the window, opening it without a second thought.

"Get a life, assh– oh." Stan squints at the boy picking himself up from the snow and brushing off his jacket. He can tell, even in the dark, that it's Kyle. His annoyance is quickly replaced with anger.

"Stan!" Kyle shouts, waving excitedly. He freezes and seems to sober, then, "I'm sorry!"

Stan considers closing the window.

"No, dude, I'm actually really sorry!" Kyle cups his hands around his mouth, like being louder will get his point across better. "I've been a complete dicktit!" Something about this makes Stan's heart flutter, which, what the fuck. His anger holds its ground, however.

"This isn't some shitty chick flick where you apologize in some huge romantic way and I swoon and forget I was ever pissed at you."

"I know that! I just-" Kyle shivers, dropping his arms to cross them over his chest. "Can I come in before I get frostbite?"

Stan grunts, wanting desperately to shut him down. As tempting as it is, Stan knows he can't just leave this shit unresolved and let all that bad shit carry over into the new year. No way he's forgiving him that easy, though, fuck that. He just wants to hear him grovel.

He shuts the window and trudges downstairs, opening the front door without fanfare.

"You have ten seconds to get in before I lock the door and go back to bed."

Kyle scrambles through the deep snow to get to the porch and all but launches himself through the threshold, tracking slush onto the carpet. Stan shuts the door wordlessly, resisting the urge to turn and just drink in the sight of the best friend he's missed so much.

"I'm an idiot, okay?" Kyle starts, shrugging off his coat from the sound of it. Stan feels a particularly strong swell of rage build up inside him.

"You're right. You know why you're an idiot, Kyle?" Silence. Stan slowly turns around. "It's because you don't think, and you overreact, and you're the only person I know who doesn't know how to handle it when Cartman comes down with a bad case of daddy issues and takes it out on everyone else."

"Jesus, I know, alright?" Kyle spits, looking genuinely upset. If Stan didn't know better, he'd almost say Kyle looks like he's on the verge of tears. "I worry about retarded shit and I forget what's important. But, look, I realized something. I don't give a fuck if people think I'm gay, or if Cartman spreads shit around, or if you like dudes who aren't me." A deep breath. "This is gonna sound really faggy, dude, but as long as I've got my best friend, nothing else matters."

"You couldn't have realized that sooner?" Stan murmurs, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through him. Leave it to Kyle fucking Broflovski to shatter a man's defense.

"I've never really been the rational one between us."

"Faggy's an offensive term." But he can't stop the grin from stretching across his face. Kyle pulls him into a rib-crushing hug.

"I put you through some really stupid stuff."

"No shit?" Stan snarks against Kyle's chest, though he's still smiling.

"You sure this isn't a shitty chick flick?"

"I'll kill you."

"Bring it."

Stan brings it. He brings it hard. He throws all of the muscle he has into toppling Kyle (a fall from that distance has to hurt, he thinks) and throws himself on top of him, straddling his narrow hips. He grins maniacally and pokes Kyle's sides, causing him to buck and writhe. They carry on like this, laughing and swatting at each other until they're breathless and panting. And Stan is still on top of Kyle, their beaming faces just inches apart and he could _so_ close that gap. His heartbeat starts to speed up again and he practically leaps off Kyle before he gets too warm and his blood starts rushing to weird places.

"Did I already say I was sorry? 'Cause I am." Kyle rolls onto his side, concern replacing his sunny smile.

"You might've mentioned it, maybe." Stan reaches out to give him a friendly punch to the shoulder, though it's more like a nudge than anything. His hand may or may not linger for an extra second or two. They lapse into a companionable silence after that, drinking in the calm and the heat of the room.

"I-" Kyle starts, but Stan cuts him off.

"It's impressive that you're cool with being mounted and pretty much fondled by a gay dude."

"I'm cool with being mounted and fondled by my best friend." Kyle wrinkles his nose. "I think I'd be skeeved if anyone else did it, gay or straight."

"So basically you're the best fag stag _ever_."

"I expect my award in the mail soon." Kyle laughs airily at his own joke, looking a little distant. Stan chooses not to pry; they've been through enough for one night.

"We could be getting plastered in Cartman's basement right now."

"We could also be watching Kenny die of alcohol poisoning while Cartman laughs and makes us listen to him play his stupid tuba."

"Touché," Stan says, one eyebrow quirked.

"Douché." They both giggle like they're eight again and the novelty of curse words has yet to wear off. Another calm wordlessness settles between them as they begin to drift off right there on the floor, relief and joy washing over them.

Stan jumps suddenly, now very much awake, when he realizes the date.

"What time is it?"

"Shit, I dunno..." Kyle checks his phone. "Eleven fifty-eight. Oh... oh fuck! It's almost next year!"

Stan hops up and dives for the remote, turning on the television and flipping to a countdown channel. He's rapt in the falling numbers, unaware of Kyle rapidly encroaching on his personal space.

"Be my midnight kiss!" the taller boy chirps, causing Stan to blush and duck his head.

"Uh, why?"

"Your first kiss of the year should be with a guy! It can be symbolic or whatever."

"Symbolic of wha... you know what, never mind." Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'll kiss you. But this doesn't mean I'm gay for you."

Kyle laughs, a little too loud and a little too nervous. The countdown timer hits twenty seconds. They start chanting along immediately, an excited energy filling the air.

"... five, four, three, two ..."

"_Happy New Year!"_ the people on TV cheer, but Stan doesn't really hear them. Kyle's on top of him, lips pressed to his and a hand on his waist. Despite knowing it was coming, Stan is too shocked out of his fucking mind to do anything but throw his arms over Kyle's shoulders and kiss back.

And then there's tongue and Kyle full-on grabbing him by the waist and _oh god what what's happening is he drunk this is too much _and Stan is pulling away eyes wide and pupils blown. He slowly drops his arms to his sides, biting his swollen lower lip as Kyle retracts his hands. It kind of seems like the other boy is reluctant to open his eyes, but he does, taking a deep breath.

"I– I'm sorry..."

"Um, it's cool."

"Got caught up."

"It happens."

"Heat of the moment, you know."

"I know."

It's awkward for a little while longer, but when Stan changes the channel to some ancient Terrance and Phillip episode that they both can recite verbatim. And then it's a little less awkward. And by the time they climb into Stan's bed, snickering and spouting off quotes from their favorite childhood TV shows, it's not awkward at all. Kyle's a little too tall for the mattress and Stan laughs, like always, and things start to feel normal and right. Kyle, as usual, makes no mention of the size of the bed. Kenny always does, cursing about "hobbit beds" and "gnome nests" when he tries to stretch out. Kyle never, ever comments on anything like that. It's something that makes Stan smile like an idiot each time he thinks about it.

Kyle yawns and rolls onto his side, throwing one arm over Stan's torso. Oh, good, they're playing big-spoon little-spoon tonight. Nothing weird about that. His ears and cheeks start to burn and out of fucking nowhere there's this weird moment of silence and stillness. Stan would almost call it clarity. In this moment, he begins to realize that nothing is, in fact, normal. This whole thing is different from other nights. He's being spooned by his best friend, who he happens to be sort of attracted to. There, yeah, he can admit it. He thinks Kyle is attractive and he's attracted to his attractiveness. That's normal, even though Kyle really shouldn't be attractive because he's Kyle. Tall, lanky, awkward, bony, short-tempered Kyle. Kyle, who Stan is slowly realizing he can't even figure out. Everything is just so fucking _weird _and _not normal_ that he's evidently lost his figurative Kyle-decoder in the fray.

Stan frowns into the dark, trying not to think about the warmth of the arm draped over him and the steady breathing on the back of his neck. If he'd move a little bit, he'd be flush with Kyle's chest. This fact makes his cheeks burn red. Fuck dammit, there is something seriously wrong with him. He's suffered serious emotional damage and can no longer make wise decisions. He is setting himself up for pain and trauma because he has no idea what to do with this sudden surge of hormones and lust. Fucking _lust_.

Stan becomes aware of his borderline hyperventilation. Kyle mumbles incoherently behind him and pulls him closer.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

Stan does manage to fall asleep at some point, but it's rather short-lived. He is awoken by the sensation of Kyle's hand sliding up his shirt and resting on his chest. For one thing, that hand is freezing fucking cold, and another, Kyle's never this much of a cuddler. He's clingy, yeah, but never to the point of exploring beneath clothing. Stan considers waking him up, but that'd be awkward for both of them instead of just Stan. So he bears it, trying his best not to let impure thoughts breach his mind and ignoring how it sort of feels like Kyle's pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

Stan screws his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. This whole ordeal frustrating on so many levels. And confusing. Definitely confusing. He'd assumed his frustration and confusion were, for the most part, over with. He's dealt with that stupid catch-22 situation, come to terms with his sexuality crisis, and regained his best friend. But no. He gets kissed and cuddled by stupid fucking Kyle as soon as he thinks he has things under control.

Okay, so he's attracted to Kyle. He can admit that. It's weird for a lot of reasons, one being that they're practically one entity, but he can say it confidently. There is no shame in finding friends attractive. And it's not like he's turned on by the hand up his shirt or warmth on the back of his neck. They're just nice feelings. The kind he could totally get used to once he's ready to even consider the idea of a romantic relationship.

He thinks, not for the first time that night, of kissing Kyle. Instigating a kiss for once, maybe, because the others (oh god why have so many happened) have been either accidental or started by Kyle. Unacceptable, because every relationship needs some give and take, and Stan certainly isn't some blushing damsel who is kissed but never kisses first. He should take some initiative next time.

Wait.

Fuck.

Stan realizes, in this horrifying moment, that he has officially dug himself into a hole too deep to escape from.

He can't deny it to himself anymore. He likes Kyle. Like, _likes_ him. Oh god.

_Yes_, he thinks, staring wistfully at his alarm clock which reads 3 AM,_ definitely a long night._


	10. Bridge

School starts back a few days after New Year's, and Stan finds himself in a foul mood right off the bat. Tryouts for Springtime sports are going on and he's left miserable and wheezy for the billionth time. That, coupled with his weird, weird Kyle-feelings, is making him an unhappy camper.

On the upside, the rumor mill thing seems to be... well, not a thing. Which is awesome. Cartman seems like less of a vengeful dick than before, having apparently undergone a major emotional purge after getting drunk off his ass with Kenny. Totally cool with Stan, because sometimes he kind of likes Cartman. But the best part is that no one's being outed or gossiped about.

He should probably be happy and trying to move on with his life. But since nothing ever, ever, _ever_ goes as planned for him, Stan spends most of his time brooding and monologuing internally. Weirdly enough, Wendy is the first one to notice that something's up. Huh. Of all people, really.

"You alright, Sunshine?" she asks, tone light as she leans against the locker next to his (and Kyle's).

"Peachy," Stan replies, shoving another book into his backpack.

"You spent all of last period staring out the window and drawing violent stick figure suicides."

"I was bored."

"You love Economics, so I don't believe that. Tell me what's up."

"I'm not feeling the magic of the inflation unit." Wendy stifles a laugh at that, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. It takes Stan a moment, but he frowns. "Oh, come on. Don't be a twelve-year-old."

"See," Wendy starts, assuming her Serious Business face, "this is why I know something's up. The Stan I know and love would laugh at that. What have you done with him?"

"That was my New Year's resolution. I got rid of him."

"Aw, a joke!" Wendy beams. "Maybe the Real Stan _is_ in there somewhere."

"I'm definitely real." Stan slams the locker shut and glares at her. "But I'm so sorry I can't be as cheerful as you'd like me to be."

"I asked you what was wrong," Wendy says, looking more concerned than angry. Stan heaves a sigh as he shoulders his backpack.

"Lots of things," he murmurs. "Lots of things are wrong."

"Like?" Oh god oh god he's going to have to tell her and that's going to mean someone knows and that makes it so much more real and–

The bell rings. Stan conceals his relief as best as he can.

"Like I'm late to class. Gotta run, see you, Wends!" With that, he books it.

"I'm not finished with you, Stanley!" she calls after him. He takes it for an empty threat and keeps running.

* * *

As it turns out, it's not an empty threat.

Wendy texts him no less than five times in the hour following their encounter. She also decides to escort him from place to place, smiling and making small talk and effectively weirding out Kenny and Kyle. There's this sinister glint in her eyes, like there always is when she's planning something big and nefarious. Stan is honestly kind of terrified.

"Sooo," she purrs, sidling up to him after the final bell rings, "how's life?"

"Been better," he replies, steeling himself for the onslaught of benign questions.

"How's your mom?"

"She's good."

"Your dad?"

"Same as always."

"And how's your sister?"

"Enrolled in anger management classes."

"And your dog?"

"Old as fuck."

"And the boy you're crushing on?"

"Frustrating."

Wendy gets this shit-eating grin on her face as Stan begins to realize what he's said. He scrambles to get the words out to redact his statement, but Wendy just keeps beaming. He's dug himself into a hole he can't escape.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Stan makes a pitiful, high-pitched noise in response and takes off toward the parking lot. He doesn't dare look over his shoulder, mostly because it's hard enough trying not to launch into a coughing fit while dodging random students. Also he's pretty sure he looks retarded, running with his backpack on.

He practically bodyslams Kyle's car and hisses a curse as he realizes that Kyle is nowhere to be seen. No quick getaway. And of course the doors are locked, of fucking course.

He sees Wendy approaching, walking at a normal pace and giving him a friendly smile. Stan's heart is in his throat. No, no, no. Not okay. He's going to have to tell her and he doesn't want to tell _anyone_ and why is Wendy always the first to know everything? He sinks to the ground, thumping his head against the side of the car.

"Let's not hurt ourselves," Wendy says coolly, dropping down next to him. He grunts in response. She responds with a more serious, "Stan."

"What."

"This isn't healthy. If you had responded without freaking out I'd leave you alone. But I'm a little concerned and I want you to talk to me."

"Do I have to?"

"If you really don't want to, then I can't force you." She shrugs. "But I just want to help you out."

Stan heaves a sigh and draws his knees up to his chest. He buries his face in his shaking hands. "Okay." He can't see her, but he knows Wendy is smiling.

"Why is he frustrating?"

"Because he's straight."

"That may be debatable."

"He's also oblivious," Stan continues, refusing to look at her.

"Well..."

"And stupid."

"That's–"

"And I hate him."

"You do _not_ hate Kyle, Stan." His head snaps up and he gapes at her, horrified.

"But... no... how.." Stan trails off when he sees Kyle and Kenny approaching

"Speak of the devil." Wendy hops to her feet and brushes parking lot grime from her person. She then waves and chirps, "Hey, guys!"

"Wendy?" Kyle makes his _I'm deeply confused_ face. "What are you–"

"Girl talk," she interrupts, grinning. Stan tries to disappear into the concrete below him. "Catch you guys later!" And with that she's off.

"She's been following you around all day," Kyle remarks, extending a hand to help Stan up. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you guys were a thing."

Kenny snorts at this. Stan would laugh, too, if he weren't so shaken up.

"She's helping me out with stuff," he murmurs, trying to be as dismissive (and, well, truthful) as possible.

"Like what?" Kyle seems curious now, which, oh Jesus. Stubborn fuck will never give up in his pursuit of knowledge.

"Just stuff." Stan is quick to avert his gaze before Kyle can glare at him.

"Like _what_," Kyle repeats, more of a command than a question this time. Stan is having none of this, because he really can't deal with being pissed off at Kyle again in addition to all the shit life has flung at him.

"Dude. She's one of the only sane people around here and I like to get her input on things. Nothing major." _So shove it, Mr. Nosy-pants McBusybody._

Kenny clears his throat, effectively diffusing the situation. Stan silently commends him for preventing something catastrophic from taking place and they head home without too much awkwardness.

* * *

Because Stan is the eternal butt of some cosmic joke, catastrophe finds him anyway.

He trudges on through his personal Swamp of Sadness, trying not to succumb to feelings of self-loathing and inadequacy as he listens to people talk about sports tryouts. He's opted out of even considering making the effort. It's the second half of Junior year, who is he kidding?

Additionally, Stan has decided to adopt an "avoid Kyle" policy, which is not very fun, but he figures it'll be beneficial when his heart gets its shit together and stops the blushing schoolgirl act. He's gotten pretty good at putting on a pokerface and tuning the world out, so he thinks he's got this shit in the bag.

Unsurprisingly, the policy does not go over very well with Kyle.

It starts with Kyle subtly pointing out Stan's avoidance and meeting it with a smile and ambition.

"Hey, dude! You seem distant lately, so I'm gonna cheer you up. Wanna go play video games?"

When that fails, the following days bring forth a veritable roller coaster of mood swings (on Kyle's part) and regret (on Stan's part).

Aloofness –or rather the "two can play at that game" approach – is second.

"Oh, hey, Stan. Didn't see you there. Not like I care or anything."

Concern is next.

"Dude, man, come on. This sucks a_ lot _and I'm worried about you. Are you okay? Is something going on?"

Anger follows, naturally. It isn't a real conflict with Kyle if there isn't hostility.

"Hey, asshole. We _just_ got done fighting and doing all that shit. And now you're being stupid and it's pissing me off. God, you're a fucking dick."

And finally, sadness (or Kyle's version thereof).

"Look, man, as gay as it sounds, I'm really torn up about this. Like, come on, I miss you. This shit is awful. Please pull your head out of your ass."

Stan responds to each situation the same way: by making an excuse and ducking out before any punches can be thrown. All the while, he keeps a calm and unaffected front.

Internally, though? Stan is a mess. His nerves are fraying and he's starting to worry that this friendship will never, ever recover. He also doubts it'd recover if he went on harboring weird feelings and letting them slip. He's kind of in a lose/lose, stalemate situation, which is pretty much how he got here in the first place. Fuck Craig. Fuck him. And fuck Clyde, too. Fuck everyone involved.

* * *

Stan wakes up unusually early on Saturday morning, absently wondering what Kyle's mood of the day is going to be. He should probably be a little concerned about the fact that Kyle is the first thing on his mind, but he chooses not to think too hard about it. He reaches clumsily for his nightstand and checks his phone, surprised to see that he has yet to receive Kyle's Bitchy Text of the Day. That text has consistently arrived at 7 AM each day this week. Stan tamps down a feeling that might possibly be disappointment as he sets the phone down and pulls his blankets over his head.

About two hours later, Stan is ready to roll out of bed and go about doing nothing for the rest of the day. He glances at his phone – still no text – before deciding to leave it behind for the time being. He figures his weekend is full of possibilities if he doesn't let his attachment to technology tie him down.

He decides on a walk. There's no possible way he can get himself into trouble if he just goes for a stroll. Thusly, he prepares to face the bitter January cold and departs.

The sky is dark and overcast, laden with the promise of rain. Stan's thoughts wander as he trudges along, kicking at the grey slush that has accumulated on the sidewalk. He knows he's being remarkably stupid, but what other option does he have? He can't go on harboring weird feelings for his best friend. That only has the potential to end badly. He _has_ to cure himself of this ridiculous condition before the whole thing blows up in his face. Which, granted, is likely to happen anyway because of just how shitty his current (and self-inflicted) situation is.

Being too wrapped up in his own head to really notice his surroundings, Stan only barely registers the sound of footsteps rounding the corner ahead of him. He lifts his head to survey the area, only to freeze when he meets the gaze of his fellow pedestrian.

The universe hates him. It really does, because there's no way that his life is so awful without some kind of crazy intervention.

Kyle doesn't say anything. His expression is distressingly unreadable. Stan is kind of terrified and turns to leave, but freezes when he feels Kyle catch him by the wrist.

"Nope," his captor says flatly. He turns and begins walking in the direction he came from, pulling Stan along with him. Stan relents, mostly because he's tired of evading confrontation. And he kind of misses Kyle's stupid face.

When the wordless trek is concluded, Stan finds himself standing by Stark's Pond, which is as abandoned and bleak as ever. He glances at Kyle, eyebrows raised.

"I didn't know where else we could have this conversation," Kyle admits, an abashed look on his face. Stan turns before he spends too much time drinking in the sight and hating himself.

"What conversation?" he asks, seating himself primly on a bench.

"You're not stupid, so don't even try that shit." Kyle looks a little confused, like he knows it's awkward to stand there but can't bring himself to sit down. Stan is a little shocked to realize that he misses being able to read his best friend that easily.

"Look, Ky," Stan begins, lifting his hands to make a defensive gesture. "I'm –"

"No," Kyle interrupts, "I've got something to say first." Stan drops his hands. "You're being a douchebag, Stan. And you know what? You're acting like one of those dumb girls in those shitty chick flicks. You're mad at me or some shit and you won't even tell me what I did!" Kyle throws his hands up despairingly. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

Well. That's a punch in the gut. "I'm not mad at you," Stan murmurs, soft and unsure. Kyle sort of looks like his head is about to explode, his face red and his fists clenched.

"Then why the _fuck_ are you acting like this?" he shouts, punctuated by another wild gesture. Stan feels his pulse quicken and oh god, he's trapped, isn't he?

"Look, dude, I've just been going through some shit..."

"What shit?" Kyle snarls. "What shit is so awful that you can't even talk to your _best friend_ about it?"

"_You_," Stan snaps, thoroughly surprising himself. Courage is a funny thing. "I _like_ you, okay? In the retarded feelings way. And I hate that because it's going to ruin everything." Stan looks down, feeling like the stupidest person alive. "I didn't want to prove you right when you were all 'oh Stan I bet you're gay for me.' And no, I'm still not gay just for you but I... you're... _ugh._" He slumps his shoulders, sighing in defeat. "I'm going home, I've wrecked enough shit for one day."

Stan takes off running at full tilt, but is stopped yet again by Kyle gripping his arm. He lets out of a yelp of surprise and, thanks to inertia, stumbles and falls into the snow. He looks up fearfully, anticipating more shouting, only to see that Kyle looks anything but angry.

"You're an idiot," Kyle says, dropping down to sit next to him.

"But you said I wasn't stupid," Stan replies, refusing to look anywhere but his own fidgeting hands.

"You're not stupid, but you're an idiot."

"How does that even work?"

"I've liked you since forever, retard."

"Forever's not really a valid time reference." Stan's head snaps up as he realizes exactly what Kyle said. "Wait. What?"

"Since a while ago, then." Kyle's looking at some distant point across the pond, cheeks and ears flushed beyond what the Winter cold normally does.

"You couldn't have told me this _before_ I went on a destructive anxiety rampage?" Stan is still sort of disbelief, the reality of everything refusing to sink in.

"No, because I thought I'd screw up our friendship, same as you did." Kyle wrinkles his nose. "But, unlike _some people_, I'm not a big enough douche to avoid you because of that." Stan punches him on the arm, though his heart isn't really in it.

"I think we're both idiots," he says after a while, still refusing to look Kyle in the eye.

"We all have our moments."

Stan feels Kyle's hand on top of his, which would be a lot more poignant if they weren't both wearing gloves. It's just so... South Park that he can't help but laugh. It sounds brittle and nervous.

"I have no idea what I'm doing right now," Stan confesses, gathering the courage to actually look at Kyle.

"What, and you think I do?"

"Point taken." They sit in silence for a moment.

"My ass is cold."

Something about that sentence is so perfectly _Kyle_ that Stan finds himself pulling him closer and kissing him. He'll be sure to add "finally initiating a kiss" to his list of today's personal victories. It lasts a moment longer before they're both smiling too much to get any kissing done.

"This isn't weird," Stan assures Kyle (and maybe himself, too) before straddling his lap and pressing another kiss to his lips. Kyle's arms wrap around his waist and his lips part and the kiss becomes deeper and more passionate. It's about eighty types of fucking awesome and Kyle tastes like too-sweet coffee and peppermint gum.

They don't break apart until they notice the rain.

"I have this theory," Stan says bitterly, looking up at the clouds, "that the universe is working against me."

"Don't be such a Negative Nancy." Kyle grins at him and he feels the butterflies in his stomach go absolutely fucking nuts. He stands there, dazed, until Kyle ushers him away and back towards civilization.

A thought occurs to Stan as they hurry down the sidewalk. "Remember that time you said coming to Stark's Pond to make out would be stupid?"

Kyle hits him. Stan laughs, loud and genuine for the first time in a while.


End file.
